Heirs of the Founders
by Animekitty2
Summary: A more mature, knowledgeable and motivated Harry Potter goes to school. His fated encounter with Hermione Granger-who has yet to become an authority worshiping young lady-comes sooner as they share a compartment aboard the Hogwarts' Express during their first journey to school. With greater self-confidence, the muggle-born and halfblood take on the magical world, hand in hand.
1. Chapter 1

**Heirs of the Founders**

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties, etc, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

**Chapter One**

Sitting quietly in a compartment, near the middle of a train pulled by an old-fashioned steam locomotive no less, an eleven-year-old Harry Potter raised his eyes from a textbook sitting casually open on his lap. He glanced out the window through glasses painstakingly repaired with tape, at the platform that remained relatively empty of passengers, staff or crew: it was—after all—nearly two hours until The Hogwarts' Express departed. Harry sighed with the unfamiliar feeling of impatience that had grown from—for the first time in his memory, anyways—a positive anticipation that made him acutely aware of time. This was unusual for young mister Potter because time, for as long as he remembered, had always revolved around chores or his relative's whims and when, otherwise, he wasn't so occupied he was expected to remain quietly nonexistent but today: today it was about him and the platform clock seemed bent on taunting his usual forbearance. Mockingly slow, the clock flipped another minute; it made Harry think it was secretly allied with his Uncle Vernon.

_Vernon Dursley, Uncle Vernon, brother-in-law—extraordinaire—to Lillian and James Potter and all 'round nasty git,_ Harry silently fumed. _I'm not surprised the rotund bastard went out of his way to make life miserable one last time before school started: had to get me here almost four hours early and without breakfast too boot—at least it allowed me to be free of my 'loving' relatives all the sooner, _he thought with venomous sarcasm. _"Hope you're right about that platform nine and three quarters, freak, because I'm not wasting my time waiting to see you off to that freak school of yours," _he remembered his uncle had sputtered with self-assumed wit. _"Don't call me if you can't find your train, you're on your own till June." _With those encouraging words, Uncle Vernon abandoned Harry at the curb with his trunk and a caged snowy owl two blocks from King's Cross Station as the unpleasant man drove off.

With the platform clock counting another measly minute, he looked back at his book, only to close it in frustration. Harry yawned, rested against the headrest and closed his eyes; welcoming his memories of the previous month. Harry Potter smiled. Reminiscing was a luxury and habit that Harry Potter had only recently acquired because before his eleventh birthday yesterdays were merely bleak predictors of tomorrows; dwelling on either was nothing more than an unpleasant exercise in futility and frustration: _why should I do that to myself,_ he had asked himself. This unchanging future changed in the days leading up to his birthday when he began receiving strange letters. Those letters, hastily intercepted by his aunt or uncle before he could see whom they were from, increased in frequency and numbers—daily—until his Uncle Vernon, in fear and frustration, bundled up his family and Harry and fled four Privet Drive. Their impromptu road trip ended in a run-down shack on a storm swept island a kilometer or so from shore.

Why that hovel existed was anyone's guess but for Vernon Dursley it offered a safe and anonymous refuge for his family to go to ground. That his nephew's face had glowed with unbridled amusement—as the Dursleys blindly panicked—was ignored by Vernon in favor of wallowing in self-misery. For Harry Potter, though, it was as if Fate had glanced at a skinny shortsighted child in shaggy oversized clothes, at last; and realized an appalling oversight on her part and chose to make amends. Fate's failings aside, a happy Harry had watched his cousin's wristwatch count away the last remaining minutes of his eleventh year and, if recent events were foreshadows; his twelfth year was looking surprisingly upbeat: he was right. Harry's eleventh birthday began with a bang, literally, as the Dursley's attempt to flee the long arm of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was, at last, thwarted by the arrival of its Keeper of Keys and Grounds, Rubeus Hagrid.

To suggest that Hagrid was 'normal' was like saying the Sun rose in the West and to Harry's aunt and uncle—not to mention his cousin—the extremely large man was the epitome of the freakiness, which they so feared. Subsequently and after a brief exchange of 'pleasantries' and Dudley sprouting an all too real pig's tail, no less; Harry and Hagrid slept for the remainder of the night before leaving the drafty, dusty and damp shack early the next morning: neither the boy nor large man said goodbye.

After overcoming a few minor logistical issues (public transportation had not been built with Hagrid in mind), they made their way to London and a grubby disreputable looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron, 'a famous place' according to Hagrid. A crowd of overfriendly witches and wizards—all vying to be Harry's best friends—excitedly greeted the two and, after, shaking hands with the lot; Harry and Hagrid escaped through the tavern's rear door. Harry found himself in a small courtyard walled with weather beaten bricks and standing beside Hagrid who then tapped one non-descript brick three times. The giant man with the shaggy and long bushy hair and beard stood aside; Harry looked on with questioning confusion.

"_Welcome to Diagon Alley,"_ Harry remembered Hagrid declare after the once solid wall had amazingly re-arranged itself into a brick archway.

This wonderful feat of magic that Hagrid accepted so casually was Harry's first exposer to the world he had been ripped from as a baby and for the remainder of the day he followed his escort through a magical place that his uncle would declare could not exist; even if he had seen it. Their first stop was Gringotts (a wizard's bank run by a brusque looking horde of unfriendly creatures called goblins) and then through various stores until, at last, Harry found himself in Ollivander's (Maker of fine wands since 382 BC, or so the sign claimed) with a caged snowy owl, an armful of school supplies and his first real friend.

"_Good afternoon," _Harry remembered a soft voice address him; he replied with an awkward hello. _"Ah yes,"_ he distinctly recalled Mr. Ollivander say. _"I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter." _Harry recalled the older man say before the unexpected comment, _"You have your mother's eyes."_

Ollivander had maintained the professional banter throughout Harry's wand fitting and after trying and rejecting one wand after another the young wizard had begun to think 'his' wand didn't even exist. _I'm having more luck creating the leaning tower of wands than I am finding one that wants me, _he had thought with growing exasperation until—at last—the right combination of wood and core found Harry's hand. After the master-craftsman explained the dubious distinction that the young wizard's wand held Harry and Hagrid left Ollivander's, returned to the Leaky Cauldron and muggle London. From there, Hagrid had accompanied Harry to Little Whinging and the house at four Privet Drive. Hagrid and the Dursleys—who had thankfully returned earlier that afternoon—exchanged a few more 'polite' words before the large man bade Harry a fond farewell and a cheery 'looking forward to seeing you at Hogwarts' and left the young wizard with his scowling relatives.

Hedwigs's soft hoot drew Harry from his musings and his attention returned to the here and now. He opened his emerald green eyes and looked at his snowy-feathered friend.

"I know . . . I know, I'm bored too, girl," Harry said to the caged owl. "I'd love to let you stretch your wings, Hedwig, but we don't even know where we're going—the name Hogwarts or the letters didn't really tell me where the school is: we can't afford to be separated."

Hedwig replied with a resigned yet understanding hoot and closed her big eyes; she was asleep before they were completely shut. _You've got the right idea, girl, _Harry thought affectionately as he looked out the window and at the platform clock: _only five minutes? _The young wizard mentally lamented the geological, subjectively speaking, passage of time. _A watched pot never boils;_ Harry remembered the old adage, took his eyes from the clock and joined Hedwig for some shuteye. _A few pleasant dreams should help pass the time, _he whimsically thought. _Maybe mom will be there again, like she was after spending my birthday with Hagrid,_ Harry reflected warmly on the dream that had opened his eyes.

"_My dearest son," _Harry remembered a woman's vestige say in the dream that night; she had his emerald eyes. _"If you're having this dream then your dad and I are most certainly dead and our final instructions for your care have been ignored. Whether this was by accident or design, I can't say, although—unfortunately—I suspect the latter. It also means that you're currently living with my sister and her family: the one place we expressly forbade in our wills, which we duly filed, I might add, with The Ministry of Magic. Furthermore, I suspect you've grown up without knowledge of your heritage or of the world you were born to because of my sister's loathing of anything to do with magic or that 'GOD DAMNED FREAKINESS!' which my 'dear' brother-in-law Vernon calls it." _His dream mother had mirthlessly chuckled before she continued. _"It is because of them that I now implant this memory and program it to play at the beginning of your twelfth year. Also, since we're not there to do it properly your dad and I wish you a very happy eleventh birthday and we promise that you have a very special year ahead but before you depart for Hogwarts—very unprepared I'd guess—we've made some plans: consider them a gift from your loving parents._

"_To begin,"_ the dream woven image of his mom continued, "_you'll need to go to Gringotts—the wizard's bank on Diagon Alley in London and to get there you'll need to go to a pub called The Leaky Cauldron. Unfortunately, I can't remember its address—it might be protected by something like a Fidelius Charm, which would explain my shoddy memory of its location—but I do remember it was between two muggle stores: Mystic Music and Reader's Magic. Those shops shouldn't be too hard to find; they're the only stores in London so called but you'll still need to pay attention when you get there—Harry dear—because I know that The Leaky Cauldron is under a Notice-Me-Not charm. Once inside, speak to Tom, he'll pass you through to Diagon Alley and then go to Gringotts; ask for Vaultlord Goldenfang when you get there and introduce yourself: Goldenfang has a certified true copy of our wills, our final instructions and oversees The Potter Family vaults and accounts. Harry, be polite but firm with Gringotts staff and don't let them intimidate you but—remember—you must control your temper; a goblin's ire is unpleasant to say the least. You also need to know, dear, that while goblins are surly, officious and legalistic beings they're never dishonest. If you keep these points in mind, your relationship with The Goblin Nation will be rewarding and profitable. They'd also be your best source of objective information about magic and The Magical World and a good place to receive some introductory instruction, for a nominal fee of course." _Harry remembered his mother's little amused and whimsical smile when she had said that—he understood why now. "_You'll need to go to and from Diagon Alley for tutoring but once you get your wand, this'll be easy: all you do is raise your wand and summon The Knight Bus, it'll take you where you want to go for a few Sickles._

"_My dear," _Harry's dream conjured mom became very serious, indeed; he recalled. _"Since you're dreaming this, we can assume that Fate has been a very cruel mistress to our family and we can only hope that Fortuna will soon smile upon you; you need all the help you can get. The reason I'm telling you this is because at this time—as I implant this messages—your father and I are in hiding and our world is in the midst of a civil war. This war is between the pureblood supremacists called Deatheaters—think Nazi Einsatzkommandos and you get the general idea—led by Lord Voldemort against The Order of the Phoenix led by Albus Dumbledore. I hope that, by the time you're having this dream, the war is over and that Voldemort and his Deatheaters are history. I also prey that our society has taken steps to address the root causes behind the bigots, which have been allowed to fester under the stupid and backwards conservatives who dominate The Wizengamot. Another thing, do not blindly trust Albus Dumbledore, Harry. It's not that he's evil per se but I've found him fearsomely amoral and plays his cards too close to his chest and, like many intelligent people, thinks he knows better than everyone else; he neither listens to nor seeks another's council. While Dumbledore has rightly earned his fame, he has a shadowy history and seems to have his own agenda for The Wizarding World; whenever I hear him say 'The Greater Good' (I hear the capitals when he says it, too) it makes my skin crawl._

"_I wish I was telling you this in person but, alas, it's not to be. Your dad and I hope things haven't been too bad for you as an orphan but that's likely wistful thinking on our part. I hope my sister and her family have overcome their hate and intolerance and had their hearts thawed a little towards me and your dad and provided a decent childhood: hopefully not more wistful thinking on our part; I have my doubts about that too. I wish I could see the young man you've become but all I see is my sleeping thirteen-month-old son and his little whimsical smile. Harry dear, your father and I loved you very much. I hope we've been able to watch over you from beyond and, if not, we've always be in your heart. Learn about us dear and learn about your heritage; you will wield great power and influence when you come of age: use it wisely and prepare yourself for your place as the next head of Family Potter but don't forget to have fun. Find yourself trustworthy friends and a worthy woman—I'm sure she'll be wonderful—and make us proud grandparents. Live long, live well and live happy and at the end of your days pass to The Next Great Adventure with the knowledge that you've led a laudable life._

"_We love you son," _Harry remembered his mom saying with tear filled eyes as the dream faded.

On The Hogwarts Express, Harry Potter woke with the dream of a dream still fresh in his memory; his eyes misted and his cheeks stained. He hastily wiped away the salty residue of sorrow, panicked briefly when he failed to recognize his surroundings and then smiled once his mind reconnected with reality. _That's right, I'm on the train that'll take me to school, _he remembered as he unconsciously shifted his gaze to the platform clock, again. _Great! _He thoughtfully shouted when he saw the time.

"Hey girl!" Harry exclaimed and the abrupt sound woke Hedwig with a start; her feathers puffed in apprehension. "Less than an hour to go, I can't wait!"

"Hoo," Hedwig replied in manner suggesting: That's nice, next time allow me to wake with the dignity befitting my station. She balefully stared at Harry before turning her attention to her mussed feathers; the snowy owl began to proudly preen.

"Stuck up feathered princess," Harry teased playfully as he dug through his pockets for the package of beef jerky he suddenly remembered should still be there and shared a piece with the owl as a peace offering. "Sorry Hedwig, I didn't mean to startle you; I'm just so excited, I can't help myself."

Hedwig blinked and offered a forgiving hoot, after enjoying her portion of the dry salty snack; she went back to sleep.

_If you weren't a bird, I'd swear you were a cat the way you fall asleep, _Harry thought as he closed his eyes for some more peaceful woolgathering and instantly his memory dropped him into his first return to Diagon Alley.

"_All you do is raise your wand and summon The Knight Bus,"_ Harry remembered his mother's dream voice, still fresh in his mind, had said. With his daily chores finished, he had approached his aunt—she was in the sitting room; engrossed in a daytime television drama—and told her he was going out. She had dismissed him with a nonchalant wave of her and, with an uncommonly happy smirk; Harry had left his aunt alone to pursue her favored intellectual pursuits. Leaving the house, he stepped into a gorgeous summer's day and had warily glanced around, happy to see that neither Dudley nor his gang of brainless thugs lurking about: Harry had smiled—wickedly—when he remembered his cousin's newly acquired appendage and how uncomfortable it must be under the boy's pants. _I wonder what Piers would say if he knew that his best bud was sporting a pig's tail?_ Harry remembered thinking with merciless humor. _Maybe I should 'accidentally' let that slip, _he remembered considering but the thought of his uncle's rage made Harry hastily reevaluate his sense of humor. Still, happier than he had ever remembered being, he stepped away from four Privet Drive and walked down the road. He continued for a few blocks, found a quiet stretch of road that was kind of out sight of the neighbors and raised his wand like his mom had said.

Harry Potter had not known what to expect and holding a stick at arm's length over his head made him feel self-conscious and sort of silly. Those feelings instantly vanished when a very loud bang announced the arrival of the strangest bus Harry had ever seen.

"_Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go." _Harry remembered the young man in the 'fetching' purple uniform had said. _"You coming or just gawking, we can't hang around here all day until you make up your mind." _The bus' conductor had said, sounding impatient. Harry had replied with a muttered sorry and stepped on board. _"Where to, mister . . ." _The young man had begun asking. _". . . Muss,"_ Harry remembered he had interrupted cagily. _"A. Nomy Muss; I'm going to The Leaky Cauldron, in London." _Harry had told the conductor. _"That'll be eleven sickles Mr. Muss," _Harry had wondered if the man was being discrete or just a little dim. Harry settled on the second as he counted out eleven silver coins. _"Please take a seat Nomy," _the conductor invited and Harry chose an overstuffed Queen Ann Style chair with a hideous floral print. He sat just as The Knight Bus departed as it had arrived; with a bang.

The trip to London and The Leaky Cauldron may not have been smooth or particularly comfortable but it was fast and, in less than twenty minutes, Harry Potter had found himself on the sidewalk in front of the pub. He hesitated briefly, remembering the welcome he had received on his birthday, before taking a deep breath and pushing open the door: various pedestrians scurrying to and fro ignored the scrawny boy with the black messy hair entering a grubby pub they didn't notice. Harry had stepped across the threshold—the smell of old lager and age assaulted his nose—and waited for the unwanted attention he had expected to receive: thankfully, only Tom had noticed the young wizard and smiled a warm welcome. Skirting the pub's patrons by staying by the wall, Harry reached the counter. _"It's a lot easier to stay anonymous when you don't enter a room with a man the size of Hagrid, Mister Potter." _Tom had said with a smile. _"I'd say," _Harry had replied with relief. _"Have you had lunch?" _He remembered Tom asking. _"No sir," _Harry had answered politely. _"Let me get you something then; what would you like?" _ _"I fine, sir, but thank you for your kind offer; I'm only passing through today."_ The young wizard had replied. _"Please don't call me sir, Mister Potter, I'm Tom," _the barkeep had said. _"Then please don't call me Mister Potter, I'm Harry." _Harry smirked when he had answered. _"I really need to get moving, Tom, I have to go Gringotts and I don't know how long it'll take to finish my business there." "At least let me give you a couple of sandwiches to go; you're too scrawny to not eat properly, Harry." _Harry had felt tears in his eyes, he had never heard an adult actually sounding concerned for him, it was unexpected; Tom had adeptly noticed the boy's response. _"I'm not one to pry but if you ever want to talk; I'll gladly lend you an ear—goes with the territory you might say. Now let me get you those sandwiches and see you on your way. Have you got a wand or do I need to pass you through?"_ _"I've got my wand, thanks Tom."_ Harry had replied warmly as two wrapped sandwiches appeared on the counter. He had picked up the sandwiches, bade Tom a fond farewell and thanks and then went to the courtyard. Tapping the appropriate brick, he had watched the bricks magically re-arrange themselves, like before, and then Harry Potter stepped into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley.

Harry Potter was almost overwhelmed by Diagon Alley. Granted he had been there with Hagrid on his birthday but he had been in a bit of a state of shock that day and a little numb from all the prior revelations so the alley had been pretty much a blur: not today. He had unwrapped one of the sandwiches and nibbled as he made his way to Gringotts, everywhere he had looked had brought new surprises or questions and Harry was glad when he reached the austere edifice that was the wizard's bank. The doormen (_door-goblins? _Harry had corrected himself) had bowed him in and he found himself in the cavernous banking hall, once more; Harry felt small, nervous and non-important in face of the task his dream mother had given him. Spying the goblin that Hagrid and he had met the other day, he warily approached its station at the counter: Harry cleared his throat and was about to speak when the goblin looked up from his ledger and gruffly spoke. _"What can I do for you young human; have you already foolishly spent the Galleons you took out the other day?" "Um . . . no sir," _Harry replied as politely as his anxiety allowed and noticed that the goblin sneered at the word 'sir'. _"Then why are you wasting my time?" "My . . . my mother told me to speak to Vaultlord Goldenfang, Mister . . . um, Goblin." "That's Razerclaw young wizardling but at least you are trying to be polite but—believe me—Vaultlords don't take kindly to children and I'm not even going to ask, I like my head where it is: attached to my shoulders." "B . . .but my mom . . ." "Vaultlords don't take kindly to witches either; I have no intention of dignifying such a request. Now be gone, child, I'm very busy."_

Dejected, Harry had turned away from Razerclaw whose nose was once more buried in the ledger he had been balancing. _Mom said to be firm but polite, so what should I do now? _Harry had thought as he looked around for a friendly or, at least, helpful face; all he saw were goblins and they all looked neither. He walked away from Razorclaw's station and tried to plot his next move, when he walked into one of the bank's goblins and knocked him down. _"Watch where you're walking, boy!" _An angry goblin accosted the young wizard. _"Boy!"_ Harry had repeated with icy rage; hearing the creature calling him 'boy' had reminded him of his uncle. _"My . . . name . . . is . . . not . . . boy!" _Harry had hissed and his magic did something generally frowned upon in Gringotts; it manifested in the crackle of blue static dancing through his hair. Immediately aware of his unwelcome outburst, he knew he had to rein in his anger or risk his nascent relationship with the Goblins; Harry hastily had drawn a deep calming breath and re-addressed the goblin he had walked into. _"I'm very sorry," _Harry had begun and reached out to help the creature to his feet; he surprisingly recognized the goblin, _"Master Griphook?" "Ah, if it isn't the young Mister Potter. I'm surprised to see you so soon; you didn't look like the type to waste money so quickly: so what brings you by this profitable day?" "Um . . . you see my mom told me to come see you," _Harry replied meekly. _"I don't think she told you to see me, particularly,"_ Griphook had replied but, not being familiar with goblin sarcasm or humor, Harry didn't recognize the tone. _"Well not you actually, my mom told me to see Vaultlord Goldenfang. I'd understand if he can't see me today but I'm willing to make an appointment for another day." _Griphook had made a sound that Harry would later know was goblin laughter. _"An appointment with a Vaultlord; do you even know what you're asking?" "Not really but if I give you a galleon will you speak to him for me?" _Harry replied innocently as he drew a Galleon from his pocket and offered it to the goblin. _"Keep your money Mister Potter, I'll speak to his assistant—against my better judgment—but I can't make any promises, you understand." "Yes, thank you," _Harry replied. _"Please wait here," _Griphook said and then Harry had thought he heard the goblin mutter, _"Why am I doing this, for this wizardling; it may be the most foolish mistake I'll ever make."_ Harry had watched the goblin walk away and pass through an ornate set of double doors; the young wizard waited.

Fighting an urge to fidget, Harry had nervously waited for Griphook's return. He had felt a set of eyes critically boring into him and when he looked he had noticed Razorclaw staring at him with a scowl, he smiled and childishly waved at the surly goblin; who had quickly looked back to his ledger. Soon, a loud ruckus had drawn the attention of every witch, wizard and goblin in the banking hall towards the doors that Griphook had—mere minutes before—passed through. The doors slammed open with a bang that echoed through the hall and six well-armed and dangerous looking goblin guards—each wearing a complete set of ceremonial armor and arms—filed into the cavernous chamber. With wary and suspicious eyes they had surveyed the bank before one had uttered a guttural sound that Harry would soon learn was Gobbledegook, the goblin's language. A moment later Griphook had escorted an older and very distinctive looking Goblin to Harry Potter.

"_Milord Potter," _Harry remembered Griphook had said very differentially, with his head bowed. _"Allow me to present to you The Venerable Vaultlord Goldenfang; Keeper of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter family vaults and accounts—you grace us with your presence, this day, young Lord." "Um . . . thank you . . . I guess." _Harry remembered his stunned reply as his eyes darted around the hall; everyone was looking at the unfolding spectacle and the only movement had been the scurrying Razorfang, hastily making his way to his side.

Harry recalled the sidelong glance that the goblin called Vaultlord Goldenfang had given to the uninvited Razorclaw before he had addressed the young wizard and said, _"Welcome to Gringott's Lord Potter-Scion Black, designate," _the distinguished goblin had greeted in a manner that confused the fledgling Mister Potter even further. _"How may The Goblin Nation assist you this profitable day?"_ Harry remembered the eruption of whispers, which had filled the bank after Vaultlord Goldenfang's salutation to a young wizard that no one recognized, on The Goblin Nation's behalf. _"My . . . My mom sorta sent me . . . um . . . Vaultlord," _Harry had replied, flummoxed by the formal protocol he had found himself suddenly immersed in: he had felt like he was going to drown. _"Your mom?"_ Goldenfang had repeated softly as he had thoughtfully examined the scrawny young wizard before him. _"Perhaps we should retire to my office, Lord Potter."_

"_I'll close my station and accompany my Lords," _Harry had remembered Razorfang saying in self-invitation and an air of self-importance. _"Why?" _Vaultlord Goldenfang had asked imperiously. _"As Lord Potter's first liaison with The Goblin Nation I feel he'd be most comfortable with the goblin he's known the longest, Vaultlord." _Harry had remembered the surly goblin had 'altruistically' offered as he tried to worm his way between the distinguished goblin and young man; Goldenfang had glanced at him, inviting the young wizard to say something: remembering his mother's words, Harry carefully considered how to word his response. _"Master Razorfang," _Harry had cautiously begun. _"While I gratefully appreciate your selfless offer, I'd feel very guilty monopolizing the time of one who is so busy," _Harry had surprised himself with his outwardly sincere sounding rebuttal: inside he had felt exceedingly nervous and a little angry with the goblin 'he's known the longest'. _"Perhaps Master Griphook has time to assist me?" _Harry had suggested politely, to Razorfang's displeasure and he had felt a surge of resentment from the goblin: Vaultlord Goldenfang had looked on with the goblin equivalent of amused disdain and silently dismissed the unwelcome interloper by means of an annoyed glare. _"Lord Potter; Vaultrunner Griphook let us retire to my chamber," _Vaultlord Goldenfang invited with professional sincerity.

"_Vaultlord Goldenfang I'm a little . . . no, make that a lot confused,"_ Harry had said, nervously, as he and Griphook followed the older goblin from the bank hall: the goblin guards that had followed them were not helping his apprehension. _"This is not the best place to discuss sensitive matters, Lord Potter," _he remembered Goldenfang had said. _"Please wait, once we arrive in my chambers I'll answer all of your questions—at least the ones I have answers to." "Thank you, Vaultlord; I appreciate the gift of your time." "Nonsense Lord Potter, my time is yours and we should've already met—under the usual circumstances we would have–but that is a matter for another day." _Harry remembered the courteous tone the goblin had used. _"Vaultrunner?" _He remembered the older goblin had addressed Griphook. _"My Lord?" "Summon Vaultlord Diamondwill; tell him that the Scion-designate Black is in my office and that we require his presence. Afterwards, retrieve The Potter Family file from The Hall of Succession." "Yes My Lord." "Also, bring The Black Family file as well—you'll need Vaultlord Diamondwill's sanction to withdraw it don't forget." "No My Lord." "Can you scribe Vaultrunner Griphook?" "Yes My Lord I'm a duly trained chronicler but only hold a provisional Level Two Negotiations License." "Consider yourself promoted to Level Three (provisional pending review) Chronicler." "Yes Vaultlord, thank you Vaultlord." _Harry recalled Griphook's none too subtle surprise and joy._ "Return with the files and attend with us in my chambers." "As you command: by your leaves Lord Potter, Vaultlord Goldenfang." _Harry recalled Griphook say, respectfully; the goblin had then bowed and left. _"Let us continue to my chambers, Lord Potter." _

Harry remembered following Vaultlord Goldenfang through a labyrinthine series of white (streaked with golden rivulets) marble corridors, which had completely overwhelmed his sense of direction. At last they had arrived at what appeared to be an antechamber furnished with a sofa, coffee and end tables and a desk. _"Silkenrobe, do I have any other appointments today?" "No Vaultlord," _a goblin sitting at the desk had replied with a distinctly higher and less gruff voice: Harry hadn't known at that time but he had become one of only a few witches or wizards to have ever seen a female goblin. _"That's good, I'd rather not have to be disrespectful and reschedule a prior appointment. When Vaultlord Diamondwill and Level Three Chronicler Griphook arrive, send them in immediately." "Yes Vaultlord" "After you Lord Potter." _Goldenfang had opened a door and invited Harry in. _"Have a seat Lord Potter while we wait for the others. Would you like some tea or juice, Milord?" "Some water would be enough for me, Vaultlord," _Harry remembered replying as he took a seat at a round table; the goblin waved his hand and a glass and a pitcher of water appeared on the table. _"Thank you," _He had said as Goldenfang took one of the seats beside him; he remembered how the goblin had intently looked at him: Harry remembered he had felt quite naked under the goblin's gaze.

"_Where do you live, Lord Potter?"_ Goldenfang had suddenly asked, Harry remembered. _"Um . . . Surrey, with my aunt and uncle and cousin—the Dursleys," _he remembered how the goblin had scowled at his reply. _"Let's wait for the others, Lord Potter." "I don't know if it'd be rude to ask but could please call me Harry, Vaultlord, I'm not comfortable with this whole 'Lord' business," _Harry remembered having asked. _"If you insist Lord . . . I mean Harry. Please call me Goldenfang; the titular title of 'Lord' is meaningless between peers, even when we are of different nations." "Thank you Goldenfang." "You're welcome Harry and I wonder if you can answer a question?" "I'll try Goldenfang but please understand that before my birthday I knew nothing about anything to do with magic or the magical world and the only things I'd thought I'd known about my parents was that they'd been unemployed and had been killed by my drunkard father in a car crash." _Harry remembered the room had suddenly felt very cold under the seething but well concealed wrath coming from Goldenfang. _"I'm sorry Lord . . . sorry, Harry . . . I shouldn't have let my anger show." "It's alright Goldenfang, I felt at least as angry when Hagrid told me the truth." "It was still unseemly of me but I digress; what I wanted to ask you was how your mother told you to see me: your parents were murdered almost ten years ago." "I don't know how she did it but she had somehow implanted a memory that I would dream if things did not go as planned if something happened to them." _Harry remembered the thoughtful look that had appeared on Goldenfang's face when he had answered. _"Lady Lillian was an uncommonly gifted and kind witch and Friend to the Goblin Nation, Harry. We were greatly saddened by her passing; especially considering the circumstances of your parent's untimely demise." _Goldenfang had said in a manner, which was as close to humanly sympathetic that a goblin could muster: the heavy air that sadly hung over the room was swept away by the sound of someone's knock.

"_Enter," _Goldenfang had said rather brusquely Harry remembered before the door opened and another distinguished looking goblin stepped into the room; Harry and Golden had risen to their feet automatically._ "Venerable Vaultlord Diamondwill," _Goldenfang had begun in introduction, _"may I present Lord Harry James Potter of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter and the Scion-designate of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." "My pleasure Lord Potter-Scion Black." _Vaultlord Diamondwill had said. _"The pleasure is mine, Vaultlord." "What a polite young wizard you are Lord Potter; far different from the self-important and rude wizards and their vain spawn I must regularly entertain." "Thank you Vaultlord Diamondwill, please call me Harry." _Harry recalled that Diamondwill had glanced inquisitively at Goldenfang. _"I'll explain once Chronicler Griphook returns." _

Vaultlord Diamondwill, Harry remembered, had joined them at the table and had taken the other seat beside him; the three sat and waited for Griphook. A loud silence had permeated the room until another knock echoed from the door. _"Enter," _Goldenfang had invited, less brusquely than before, and Griphook entered with two large leather bound and ancient looking portfolios. _"Ah, Griphook congratulations on your promotion to Level Three Negotiation Chronicler; you make your father and family proud this day."_ Vaultlord Diamondwill had said, Harry remembered. _"Thank you, Vaultlord Dimondwill; I am honored by your consideration."_ Griphook had bowed and said with deep respect to Diamondwill. _"Very good, please join us." _Goldenfang had invited as he pointed to the chair opposite to Harry. The younger goblin had bowed to Goldenfang, hastily took his assigned place at the table and slid the portfolios to the distinguished Vaultlord. Harry had watched with curiosity as Goldenfang pricked his thumb on a pin, which protruded from the hasp securing the top portfolio. A small drop of goblin blood oozed onto the hasp and it glowed. Harry had heard a very distinct click, saw the hasp spring unlocked and then Goldenfang withdrew a file from the portfolio; the goblin quickly perused its contents.

Harry remembered he had sat, smothered by the heavy atmosphere that had steadily built as Goldenfang read through the official looking yellowish documents in his hands and waited for the goblin to resume speaking. After what had felt like hours and numerous penetrating gazes that occurred as The Vaultlord glanced over the documents under his review, Harry remembered the goblin finally closed the file and laid it before him. After one more long penetrating gaze intent on boring into him, Harry had remembered Goldenfang say; _"Would you like me to read this to you, Lord Potter—these are your parent's wills by the way—or would an abridged version suffice for now?" "Abridged?" _Harry had replied; he was uncertain what Goldenfang was asking. _"I'll summarize then,"_ Goldenfang had replied politely to the young wizard's youthful ignorance._ "Thank you, sir,"_ Harry remembered having said. The goblin had given him a toothy grin before he said,_ "As you, Lord Harry, are the only living heir to the late Lord and Lady Potter all monies, rights, properties and privileges—ceded and held by virtue of the Crown for the use of, for and by, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter—fall to you." _Harry remembered the feeling of stunned confusion he had felt over this revelation and hadn't known what to say. _"Furthermore—if I may Vaultlord Diamondwill," _the goblin had glanced at the other and received a nod, _"attached to you parent's will is a letter of intent signed by Lord Sirius Black of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; designating Harry James Potter as his heir. As the current lord is residing in Azkaban as a guest of the Ministry for Magic and Her Majesty's Government; the regency of House Black falls to his heir if one has been named. As such, Lord Potter, you are also Lord Scion-designate of The Family Black." _After hearing this, Harry had felt like he had been thrown under the Knight Bus and felt rightfully stunned; heavy silence had fell upon the room.

"hoo . . ."

"Hoo . . ."

"HOo . . ."

"HOO!" Harry's eyed snapped open and turned to his insistent friend who, after another piqued glare, looked towards the compartment's door; the young wizard's eyes followed: a gentle and hesitant rap came from the door.

"Come in," Harry invited.

—**}{—**

As Harry Potter waited and reminisced in his compartment, a girl—as excited as he about a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—was having a less than perfect day. It had started well (but for the lack of proper sleep, which was to be expected after all) and the trip to King's Cross Station had not been overly arduous (except for her acute and incessant worry—regardless of her mom's constant reassurances—that she had forgotten something) but had went South as soon as she crossed the barrier to platform nine and three quarters. It began when—after a final hug with her parents and promises to write regularly and frequently—she had just stepped onto the platform and the luggage cart she was pushing bumped into another's.

"I'm sorry," she had sincerely apologized to the older girl who'd been pushing the other trolley.

She hadn't expected the teenager before her to be all sugar and smiles but the sheer loathing look she received was unexpected and unwarranted.

"Watch where you're going, firsty!" The girl had replied with rancor and a glare so icy that it felt as if the temperature had plunged several tens of degrees.

Stunned; the younger girl looked down and inwardly shivered as anxiety, clawing like a small animal trying to escape from her chest, threatened to send her running back to her parents but she managed to repeat, "I . . . I'm s . . . so sorry."

"Whatever," the older girl sneered haughty and dismissive before turning from the 'firsty' and walked away.

With her heart beating furiously in her mouth, she watched the teenager walk away—carrying herself as if she were the Queen of Sheba—and looked around with far more trepidation. Everywhere she looked; it seemed as if she saw similar airs and the few that looked otherwise were part of groups, which seemed exclusive to all but friends and associates. Struggling against her fear of being all alone, again, she pushed her cart through the crowd—carefully—feeling as if everyone was looking and making fun of her. Fighting tears, she reached the luggage handlers and waited in the queue.

"Everything properly labeled, love?" A man in his twenties asked, he at least sounded friendly.

"Yes sir—I think so sir," she replied.

"Muggleborn?" he asked unexpectedly.

"Muggleborn? If you mean, 'are my parents non-magical' then yes sir." She hesitantly replied.

"I remember my first trip to Hogwarts, so I sympathize, I'm muggleborn too and found it all very daunting but you'll be okay but—a simple word of advice—avoid the snakes as much as possible: they tend to be a foul lot of bigoted gits. Thankfully, a good lot of them are kinda dumb and incompetent too, it's kinda funny actually—in the whole twist of fate way," he said and smiled at her reassuringly. "That aside, I think you'll really enjoy yourself—I know I did—and it's nice to be around people who understand your difference: I didn't have any friends until I started Hogwarts, everyone at my muggle school thought I was some sort of freak or worse."

The young witch smiled.

"Is there anything in your trunk you might want on the train ride, love?" he asked.

The youngster shook her head and replied, "No sir, thank you sir."

"Off with you then, your trunk will be in you dorm room by the time you try to go to sleep tonight," he told her.

"Thank you," she said with a meek smile before walking away.

"Good luck, love," he called after her, encouragingly, before a brief wave of cold dread washed over him from out of the blue. With an unexpected and baseless shiver, he watched the girl board the Hogwarts express.

The girl felt much better after the luggage handler's friendly reassurance as she boarded the train near the baggage car.

"What are you doing here, firsty?" demanded an older teen wearing a green and silver ascot.

The young girl tried to put on a brave face and answered hesitantly, "I . . . I'm going to Hogwarts, you see."

The older girl rolled her eyes.

"Where else would you be going, dear?" Another older girl who wore a yellow and black ascot said warmly. "This is the Hogwarts Express after all, where else would you be going?"

The young girl with bushy brown hair blushed furiously on hearing that.

"Soooo . . . cuuuute, I just love firsties; they're so adorable." The older girl exclaimed as she unexpectedly drew the young brown eyed girl into a crushing hug.

"Estelle, are you sure you're not a closet Slytherin because if you continue to constrict the firsty—like that—she'll pass out: not that it really matters too much; her blood looks a little muddy from where I stand."

Shocked indignation froze on the face of the teen hugging the younger girl as she faced the other, less than pleasant, student, "You're a prefect, Gunhilda, how can you say that!"

"I'm not at Hogwarts, yet, and once there I have to be ever so fair to those below me, regardless of how their blood reeks—give me a break: I'll be good once we get there; besides, we're still at King's Cross and we're not 'officially' on duty until the train leaves the station."

"Still . . ." Estelle began with an angry plea.

"Whatever, just get it out of here."

The young bushy haired student with brown expressive eyes felt her cheeks dampen. _It's just like always, _she thought with sorrowful anxiety.

"There, there dear it'll be fine but I guess it would be better if you left; this is the prefect's car, you know." The teen named Estelle said as she turned the young girl to the back of the car and gave her a little push. "Off you go dear, there's plenty of space at the back of the train I'm sure."

She exited the car and, as she passed between carriages, the brown eyed girl wiped her eyes with her fists; hoping her tears wouldn't be too obvious. She stepped into the next car and was immediately assaulted by the chaos that a group of students could create when left unsupervised and tried to think positive thoughts; it wasn't very effective. Fearing the worst but hoping for the best, she continued her trip past compartments that were either full or were reserved for friends and none seemed friendly or welcoming to the busy haired girl. Further and further back—from one carriage to the next—she found herself nearing the end of the train until she glanced through a compartment door window and saw a boy—about her age—fast asleep; beside him, in a smallish cage, a beautiful white feathered owl perched majestically and slept like its master. So enthralled by the beautiful animal, the girl with the bushy brown hair and brown eyes almost forgot her manners as she reached for the compartment's sliding door. She stopped herself, surprised by her unthinking rudeness, and with gentle hesitance knocked on the door. She knocked a little harder and then harder again before her efforts were rewarded by an answering hoot from inside the compartment.

"Come in," a sleepy voice invited.

The young witch slid the door open on invitation and stepped inside. Entranced, the brown eyed girl was unable to take her eyes from the snowy owl.

"Would you please stop that," Harry said with a touch of humor. "Hedwig's ego is big enough already; I'd hate to see it grow anymore and find myself unworthy of my friend's affection."


	2. Chapter 2

**Heirs of the Founders**

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

**Chapter Two**

Harry gazed at the girl standing by the door; she was wholly entranced by Hedwig and not really aware—to the point of ignoring—the boy who shared the owl's compartment. Her nut-brown eyes, like ripened hazels, gleamed intelligently behind bushy brown hair, which she casually brushed from her face to afford an unimpeded gaze at the young wizard's snowy-feathered friend. For the briefest of seconds, his and the girl's eyes met and in that moment Harry felt something squirm behind his breastbone and a flash of kinship—doing more in introduction than words could muster—was ignited by the sad and lonely eyes they shared. The sudden warmth in his cheeks rose in tangent with the gentle pink that tinted hers and neither youngster understood what passed between them; then the girl's gaze returned to Hedwig and the spell was broken. Unbidden, a word rose from Harry's addled feelings as he studied the girl who studied his feathered-friend; the word was beautiful.

"Would you please stop that," Harry said with a touch of humor that belied his thoughts. "Hedwig's ego is big enough already; I'd hate to see it grow anymore and find myself unworthy of my friend's affection."

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean to stare," she replied without taking her eyes from Hedwig. "He's a beautiful owl; I've never seen one this close before."

"HOOT!" Hedwig exclaimed rather indignantly; startling the girl. She flinched but didn't shift her eyes.

"He's a she," Harry corrected with a friendly chuckle.

"Oh dear, I'm very sorry girl I didn't know." The young witchling said to the owl.

"hoot," Hedwig replied in a forgiving yet understanding manner but the girl thought it was a well-timed coincident.

"Um . . . would you mind if I shared your compartment or are you waiting for friends?" She asked cautiously although her eyes remained fixated on Hedwig.

"Are you asking me or Hedwig?" Harry asked with a touch of protective irreverence. _I can't imagine a beautiful girl really wants to sit with me, _Harry thought self-effacingly, _she's just interested in Hedwig I'm sure. _"I don't have any friends—other than Hedwig—so I'm sure it's okay but what about you; will your friends mind sitting with me?"

The bushy-haired witch heard and felt the plaintive sting in Harry's words; she answered unexpectedly quickly and without thought in little more than a whisper, "I don't have any friends either."

Again, a moment of empathy passed between them as words fell to the overwhelming silence of understanding from whence Harry replied; trying to lighten the heavy air upon them, "I'm fine with it but it's up to Hedwig."

The brown eyed, bushy haired witch welcomed Harry's levity and smiled.

"So, what do you say girl," Harry smiled as he spoke to his owl, "may Miss . . . I'm sorry I don't know your name."

"Granger, Hermione Granger."

"May Miss Granger join us, Hedwig?"

"Hoot," the owl replied in what sounded like a positive response, which Hermione thought was another well-timed happenstance.

"Thank you . . . Hedwig was it? I appreciate your invitation," she said with a smile and polite little nod to the owl as stepped into the compartment; sliding the door closed behind her.

"Hoot."

Hermione entered the compartment only to find she was feeling oddly self-conscious. After a quick brush through her hair with her fingers—in hopes of taming that wild beast—she found herself smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her blouse and skirt before sitting opposite of Harry. She noticed the book in his lap and felt a sense of relief in seeing that they had at least a little common ground from which a conversation could arise.

"What are you reading?" She asked hoping that she didn't sound nosey.

"This," Harry replied, shyly, as he lifted the book to show the pretty girl—in his opinion anyways—who had asked to share the compartment. "It's a book about physics. It's a muggle thing."

Hermione smiled and said, "I know what physics is, I'm muggle-born. I guess you are too."

"Not exactly," Harry replied cautiously. "My mom was a witch and my dad was a wizard but I've spent most of my life in the muggle world."

"Was?" Hermione asked and immediately regretted it as a brief shadow fell across Harry's mien.

"Yeah, they both died when I was really young; I grew up with my aunt and uncle and cousin: they're muggles you see."

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly in response but in her head, she reprimanded herself. _Good going, Hermione, you've only just met him and already you've stumbled into a sensitive topic._

Harry was not the most astute student when it came to people skills but it was obvious to him that the girl was being unnecessarily hard on herself for something she shouldn't be expected to know; he found himself drawn to comfort her.

"It's okay, Hermione," Harry began but was shocked by the way she responded to her name—Harry liked how it felt as he had said it, though—and found himself needing to apologize. "I'm sorry, we just met; I shouldn't be so informal with a pretty girl I've just met."

It was Harry who felt self-conscious, now. _Did I just call her pretty out loud; _he thought furiously, _how can I be so careless? Even if it's true, I'm sure she must think I'm really shallow, now._

_Did . . . Did he just call me pretty? _Hermione's heart managed a spate of unfamiliar acrobatics as Harry's words wove through her mind. _I know daddy always calls me pretty but . . . well . . . he's daddy._

"I'm sorry . . .," they said in unison and snickered when they heard each other.

"It's okay to be informal," Hermione said, being the first to recover, "but I am sorry about your parents."

"Don't worry, Hermione . . ." Harry waited and this time she smiled; it gave him a gentle push. "I never really knew my parents. I mean, I was barely a toddler when it happened; it was that long ago."

"At least you had an aunt and uncle to take you in," Hermione casually commented.

"I guess . . ."

Once again, Hermione realized she had stepped into unwelcome territory and quickly opened a thought file marked: 'Things Left Unspoken'; the boy's family became entry number one but bore the stamp 'for future consideration' Hermione concluded.

Quickly changing gears, Hermione said with a friendly smile, "Are you always this rude or did my pretty face make you forget your manners? After all, you know my name but I don't know yours; that's a little unfair, don't you know?"

"I wasn't thinking, sorry," Harry began, aghast by his lack of manners. "I'm not really used to people not knowing who I am—which is sorta weird because only a little while ago no one knew or cared who I was. Unfortunately, these days, I've found my name brings me unwelcome attention."

"You make it sound like you're famous or something . . ." she said and felt as if he was mocking her.

". . . or something. Yeah, that sounds about right," Harry said darkly, "but I guess I can't avoid it: very well Miss Granger, I'm Harry Potter it's a pleasure to meet you; please call me Harry."

The young witch looked stunned and stared at the young wizard who had just claimed to be, perhaps, the second most famous wizard alive in England—Albus Dumbledore was first. Hermione Granger, surprisingly for all who knew her, was speechless.

"The Harry Potter . . .?" She finally managed.

Harry tried to smile but he had grown to hate the fame, the way it interfered with his life and how it now colored the start of his want-to-be friendship with the pretty witch.

"I'd prefer 'a Harry Potter' over 'the Harry Potter' any day but if you mean the whole 'Boy-Who-Lived' thing, yeah, it's true; not that it really means anything."

"But you're the Boy-Who-Lived!" Hermione exclaimed and immediately regretted it.

Harry smiled sadly.

"I've read about you . . . in books," her words echoed, emptily, in her head and the compartment as she said it.

"Hopefully not in a 'Harry Potter and an Alarming Alliteration' book," he said with a wry smile.

Hermione blushed but quickly recovered and said in her defense, "I'm talking non-fiction books."

"Non-fiction books, eh?" Harry replied; hoping his smile and tone were taken as the harmless tease he intended it to be.

"Um . . . Well, I might've sorta—you know—kinda glanced at those but I swear I didn't read them . . . all; I mostly stuck to history books."

Unable to contain himself, Harry Potter erupted into laughter to the consternation of the young witch sitting across from him. His sudden outburst startled Hedwig, she had gone back to snoozing and she didn't appreciate being woken so rudely; she voiced her displeasure.

"HOOT!"

Hedwig's sudden interjection made Harry consider his behavior towards this girl and he didn't like what he saw: Harry really wanted a friend and his laughter would not endear Miss Granger to him. In this epiphany, he saw the shadow of loneliness, which had dogged his life, reflected in her hazel eyes. Obviously not the same but felt as acutely, Harry began to wonder how Hermione had been brought to the same place that he had reached; prior to his birthday. Once again, the unfamiliar squirming was felt in his chest as he recognized a kindred spirit and Harry knew that, in one form or another, the young witch's fate had been tied to his: in that, Harry felt she had been—somehow—cheated.

"Hermione," Harry began his tone as gentle as he could muster. "Everything you've read and everything people think they know about me is as factual as 'Harry Potter and the Fantastic Phantasm' or any of the so called 'Harry Potter Adventures'. Only one person alive was there that night and he ain't talking, never has; never will. If I don't know what happened, how could anyone else? Sure, there have been countless theories and well-meaning speculation but that's all it is and where it's likely to remain. I hate the hero worship I get from ignorant sheep, which seem to embody so much of the magical community I've met and whenever one of them says 'The-Boy-Who-Lived', I hear 'The-Boy-Whose-Parents-Were-Murdered-by-Voldemort' : it is a distinction I could live without—thank you very much. It's one of the reasons that I prefer the company of goblins instead of my so-called peers: at least I neither fear a knife in my back nor a pedestal to stand upon with them. All that aside, I'd really like to have a friend who sees Harry Potter; not The-Boy-Who-Lived: I'd like you to be that friend, Hermione."

Hermione Granger stared at the boy—_no, young man,_ she mentally corrected as she considered his words—who had once more done something unexpected: he had left her speechless, again. She thought about what he had said and the arguments he had put forth and found it impossible to connect them to a boy barely a month past his eleventh birthday. His manner was thoughtful and firm and for all it had been an obvious rant; he hadn't descended into sarcasm or belittlement or into the lecturing tone of a know-it-all, which Hermione often became whenever she felt certain of something. Considering all he had said, the witchling realized; Harry Potter was frighteningly mature and far smarter than she had expected and from her budding adolescence came an unfamiliar skip in her heart.

"I'd like that too, Harry," she said shyly as a faintly pink hue blossomed on her cheeks.

Harry felt his heart thump as Hermione said his name for what amounted to the first time and in conjunction with the young witch felt warmth upon his face as their eyes locked upon the other's. Harry felt himself falling into hazel pools, which had been captured by the glimmering depths of emerald green gems.

"Harry," Hermione began with hesitant curiosity, "you seem very mature for an eleven year old . . . oh dear . . . I'm so sorry, that was so unbelievably rude of me—I don't know what I was thinking."

Hermione cast her gaze to the floor. _Hermione Jean Granger,_ she mentally berated herself, _what are you thinking, or are you? You've just met him and you go and say such an incredibly nosey thing; he must think I'm making fun of him._

"Hermione," he began and welcomed the return of her eyes at his prompt, "it's kinda hard to explain but I'm older than my age; I should hope that I'm at least a little more mature than my eleven years would warrant. Besides, I never really had much of a chance to be a kid."

"What do you mean?"

Harry winked at the witch and said, "A man should be allowed a secret or two, shouldn't he?"

"I suppose," she found herself retorting in uncommon humor for one who usually holds herself—guardedly—at arm's length from others, "but what does a man have to do with you?"

Harry laughed just as The Hogwarts Express' whistle blew its departure warning; it was now five minutes before the hour.

"Five minutes!" Harry exclaimed, this time sounding like the child he still was; Hermione shared his enthusiasm and had to fight the urge to do a happy dance: it would've ruined the mature façade she was trying to wear.

The final whistle blew and a shudder rippled through the train as it departed King's Cross station and as the wheels turned ever faster the compartment's door slid open; a boy—apparently another first year—stepped inside and looked around.

"Mind if I sit here, mate?" the boy asked and, before being invited, made for the space beside Harry._ Rude much, _both Harry and Hermione thought—unknowingly at the same time—and considered the boy before them. He was tallish and his hair was a bright and unflattering shade of orangey red. Panting and as ruddy as the numerous freckles scattered across his face, he sat next to Harry. _At least he doesn't stink, _Harry thought with uncharitable relief as he glanced at Hermione; she sported a little smile that suggested scorn rather than the welcome the newcomer thought it meant.

"Hi, I'm Ron . . . Ron Weasley," the boy said once he had caught his breath; he leaned forward and extended his hand to Hermione.

The young witch looked from the hand to his face; she smiled coolly, limply took the hand and, in an overly polite tone, said, "Charmed."

Harry casually observed the two and noted the witch's less than ecstatic welcome for the boy named Ron Weasley and was a little surprised; she hadn't been like that with him. _Why is she so snobby? _Harry thought, puzzled by her manner. _She wasn't so stuck up a minute ago, I guess she was only interested in Hedwig after all—I should've known no pretty girl would want to sit with me. _He mused and was about to withdraw to his usual melancholy self when he caught Hermione's hazel glance, he understood: she was hiding behind the aloof mask of a girl who had extended a hand in friendship only to find it brushed aside or held in the hollow grip of being used too many times. Another thing Harry noticed, which also surprised him was that he felt uncomfortable with the sight of this Ron guy holding Hermione's hand: he had to fight an urge to growl and was relieved when the witch released the hand. The boy settled back on the bench and looked out the window; he hadn't noticed the subtle shadow of distaste on the girl's face: Harry did and he was acutely aware of the flutter he felt when the witchling's hazel orbs turned back to him.

"Going to Hogwarts?" Ron asked redundantly; it looked like he was asking his reflection. "Which house will you be in? I'm certain I'll be in Gryffindor. You two aren't snakes are you?"

"Snakes?" Harry questioned. _What's with this guy, he hasn't even bothered to ask for our names and now he's talking about houses and reptiles. _Harry thought as he gave Hermione a puzzled glance.

"Slytherin, I suppose," Hermione answered. "Salazar Slytherin's house animal is a snake—I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. Every house has its own animal: Hufflepuff's is a badger, Ravenclaw's is an eagle, Gryffindor's is a lion and—like I said—Slytherin's is a snake. I doubt I'll be in Slytherin, though."

"Why not Slytherin?" Harry asked and he was beginning to wish he had at least glanced at the unopened copy of Hogwarts: A History languishing lonely and ignored in his trunk.

"Are you barmy, mate?" Ron snapped. "Snakes are bad, everyone knows that."

"Slytherins are not bad," Hermione retorted sharply, "they're ambitious and cunning; everyone knows that."

"Spoken like a snake, if you ask me," Ron said reproachfully as he eyed Hermione suspiciously; she glowered back.

An uneasy silence oozed into the compartment as Ron crossed his arms and sunk into the bench's padding. He sullenly stared out the window, watching the rapidly passing landscape, and began ignoring Hermione and, by extension, Harry as well. The ignored passengers exchanged glances of unmitigated dislike for the now unwelcome intruder; each could see the other's wish, hoping Ron Weasley would just go away: their hope died when the red head began snoring. Lifting the book from his lap, Harry stood and smiled; Hermione returned the smile, it was warmly inviting. Joining the bushy haired witch on her side of the compartment, the young wizard sat beside her and opened his book; beside him, Hermione rummage through her bag and pulled out a book, together they settled into some quiet reading time.

Time passed and the young witch and wizard found the quiet camaraderie both welcome and rewarding but the continuing presence of their snoring and uninvited companion dampened their opportunity to learn more about each other. In silence, they would exchange discrete smiles, the occasional brush against the other would tint their cheeks with a warm pink and beneath all of it; their magic quietly wove them together

"What are you reading?" Harry whispered to the young witch totally engrossed in the fat tome upon her lap.

With a little embarrassed smile, she held up Hogwarts: A History.

"I've got a copy of that in my trunk," Harry whispered to Hermione.

"Isn't it the bestest book ever?" Hermione replied quietly.

"Bestest?"

Hermione blushed prettily as the young wizard called her on the misuse of the Queen's English.

"I'm sorry," she whispered with embarrassment. "I know 'bestest' isn't a proper word, it's just that . . ."

"Just what?" Harry asked softly in a tone he hoped the witchling would hear as a playful tease.

_Good going, Granger, _Hermione thought bitterly displeased with herself. _I've barely just met Harry and already I've reached confession time and he's way too astute for me to casually change the topic; he'd catch it for sure._

Hermione Granger cleared her throat and whispered, "I was kinda hoping to change how people—you know—see me . . ."

"Why?" Harry was puzzled.

The young witch looked like she was fighting tears but managed to continue, "Back in my old school I was the bushy-haired bucktoothed bookworm know-it-all. No one seemed to like me—except when they wanted to copy my homework or something like that—and they went out of their way to avoid me. Even my teachers didn't like me—even though I could always answer their questions—and even seemed to resent me a little because I didn't need them to teach me. I've been able to read pretty much since I was four and since I loved to read, I'd have already read all my textbooks before school would commence. I was so lonely, my parents were my only friends but that's s not the same—is it? I was so glad when I got my Hogwarts letter and could escape all that but then I got worried that the same thing would happen all over again so I figured I should change. I don't want to be alone anymore, I can't stand it—why can't people just like me for me?"

The last was said so poignantly that Harry felt the tears she refused to cry in his own eyes and so compelled by Hermione's sorrow he did something so out of character that he didn't recognize himself; he put his arms around the girl and awkwardly hugged her. The young witch stiffened in surprise but soon melted into the boy who held her.

"Sssh . . ." Harry whispered, his warm breath intimate against the girl's ear, "it's okay Hermione, I understand—really I do."

"How?" She softly replied and her unshed tears were obvious in her voice. "You're Harry Potter—everybody loves you."

Harry found himself fighting anger that threatened lash out at the young witch in his arms. He pulled back from his uncharacteristic affection but left his hands gently holding her shoulders.

"Hermione Granger look at me and listen," Harry regretted his ire tone but forged on. "I mean it; I understand what it's like when no one likes you."

Hermione lifted her head to look at Harry but her hazel eyes were hidden behind bushy brown hair; hooking his thumb into the concealing tresses, he gently brushed her hair to the side so he could see her face. He smiled in a way he hoped was gentle and reassuring; she seemed receptive and returned a weak smile of her own.

"My aunt, uncle and cousin hate me," Harry forced himself to say. "They call me boy or freak and until my Hogwarts letter arrived, I slept on an old thin mattress in the cupboard under the stairs; my first Hogwarts letter was even addressed 'Harry Potter, the cupboard under the stairs' at my aunt and uncle's house."

The witch gasped in a combination of horror and disbelief; she said, "But that's. . ."

"Let me finish," Harry interrupted, perhaps a little too forcefully by the look on the girl's face but he continued. "When I was in school my cousin and his merry band of idiots enjoyed a sport called 'Harry Hunting' and if another student began to get friendly with me, they shared my fate. Needless to say, it didn't take long before I was treated like the school leper and you know what was even worse: Dudley—that's my cousin—and the Dummies were able to do this with impunity."

_Impunity? _Hermione thought, briefly trying to distract herself from understanding what the wizardling was telling her. _Not a word I'd expect from an eleven year old._

Harry took a deep breath before continuing, "Now, I could've lived with that—after all it wasn't any worse than what happened where I lived—but what really bothered me was the schoolwork. You see, I love to learn and once I could read I did so voraciously and, lucky for me, my cousin and his buddies were allergic to learning and books—or so you might think, anyways—so the school's library was my one safe refuge but even that was bittersweet."

"But what about your schoolwork?" Hermione whispered.

Harry chuckled darkly before beginning anew, "Do you know what it's like to write a test; knowing that you know the answers but having to figure out the most creative way of getting most of them wrong . . . believably?"

What Harry said stunned the witch. _Intentionally giving wrong answers?_ She thought, scandalized and wholly affronted by the very idea. Hermione shook her head.

"That is what school has been like for me so far," Harry stated in tonal absolute.

"But. . . why?"

"It's because of my cousin," the young wizard quantified bitterly. "If I even did as little as to do as well as Dudley dearest—whose brain is the size of a flea's just as his girth is the size of a hippo's—my aunt and uncle would accuse me of copying li'l Dudykins hard efforts and punish me. It didn't matter that our desks were never near the other's—my aunt and uncle knew that too, by the way—there was no way that the 'boy' or 'freak' could be as smart as their most exceptional and socially gifted son; let alone smarter—as was displayed the few times when I failed to fail as spectacularly as my cousin was apt to do."

"How could you stand that?" Hermione exclaimed loud enough to disturb sleeping beauty, whose drool was streaking the window.

"Wha . . .?" The redhead woke with a start and looked around in confusion before saying, accusingly—as if Hermione and Harry had intruded upon him. "You guys still here?"

"Where else would we be?" Hermione answered coolly.

Ron seemed taken aback by the young witch's tone and by the looks he was receiving from the other side of the compartment. _Have they been making out?_ He asked himself as he noticed how close the two were sitting together. _She's kinda cute, I guess. _He silently added as an afterthought and felt a little jealous of the green-eyed boy.

"Umm . . . sorry about earlier," he said, hopefully sounding sincere. "I didn't get much sleep last night . . . kinda nervous y'know . . . I wasn't thinking right, I guess. How long have I been asleep?"

"A couple hours maybe," Harry answered as Ron casually wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. _Ugh . . ._ Harry thought with distaste; a glance at Hermione showed that she shared his opinion.

"What's your favorite quidditch team, mate?" The redhead asked Harry, out of the blue.

"I don't follow quidditch," he replied.

"Blimey mate, what do you mean you don't follow quidditch?" Ron exclaimed incredulously. "I mean it's like the bestest sport ever invented."

Harry glanced at Hermione and rolled his eyes; the hazel-eyed witch fought back a snicker. The Weasley boy was oblivious to the exchange and remained enraptured by his feelings for the sport.

"Muggle raised, mate," Harry stated simply.

"Oh," Ron began, "you're muggle born; of course you wouldn't know noth'n 'bout quidditch but let me tell you, mate, there's no betterer sport in the whole world. It's played on brooms, you see . . ."

"I said muggle raised, not born; I know what quidditch is," Harry said, interrupting what promised to be a rambling, long-winded obsessive fan-boy bit of verbiage. "I'm just not interested; I have better things to do with my time."

"Better things . . .?" Ron began, obviously boggled by the boy's disinterest; he switched his sights to Hermione, "What about you? I mean I can't wait till second year and get to play on the Gryffindor House team with my brothers; are you going to try out for your house team next year?"

"I think that's highly improbable and, like Harry; I have more important things to do at school than play some silly sport on a broomstick. Besides, it sounds rather uncomfortable —you know—flying around with a broom wedged between my legs, no thanks, mate, I'll pass," Hermione said with certainty.

_Just my luck, I would have to find the one bloody compartment with a pair of quidditch haters inside,_ Ron thought sourly. _Did she call him Harry?_

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names; did she call you Harry?" Ron asked; looking at the green-eyed boy as a semblance of social grace reared its unfamiliar head—at least for the redhead.

"Yeah, I'm Harry; she's Hermione," the young wizard replied with a nod to the accompanying witch.

"That's great, mate, I'm Ron; how do you . . . oh yeah that's right, I've already told you my name," Ron said, correcting himself. "My li'l sis' friend Loony—I mean Luna—would probably say I'm suffering wrackenspurtz, or something like that, because of my nerves and lack of sleep."

"It's okay, Ron, don't worry about it," Harry soothed.

"What's a wrakenspurtz?" Hermione asked, curiously.

"How the hell should I know, Luna's a touch odd so I usually ignore her," Ron replied with a sardonically amused smile; he noticed the book in Harry's lap and asked, "Whatcha read'n, you two?"

"You mean this?" Harry replied glancing at his book. "It's about physics."

"What's a fizzix?"

"It's an advanced muggle science, Ron, don't you know that?" Hermione replied and instantly regretted her exasperated know-it-all tone; she quickly apologized. "Sorry about my tone; I'm kinda nervous and tired too, I guess. I'm reading Hogwarts: A History."

"Why?" Ron asked.

"Why 'Hogwarts: A History' or why 'reading'?"

"Umm . . . both I guess."

"Well Hogwarts: A History is like the bestest book ever," she glanced at Harry; he rolled his eyes in amusement: Ron didn't notice. "Besides, I like to read; still, speaking of whys: Harry, why are you reading a book about physics when you're wizard about to start his magical education?"

"Science and math were my favorite subjects in my old school—not that I could do well enough for anyone to notice, you know," Harry replied, "but it's because I'm about to start my magical education that I'm reading the physics book."

"How come?" Hermione asked, truly curious; Ron's face was blank.

"I was doing some reading on various magical theories—you know: what magic is and/or why it does what it does—and I didn't like what I read," Harry answered, carefully choosing his words.

"Magical Theory is pretty heady stuff, mate—way beyond NEWT level," Ron said; his tone suggested there was something obviously wrong with Harry. "Why would you want to that to yourself? Hey, do you know how to play Exploding Snap?"

"Where did you get books on Magical Theory, Harry?" Hermione inquired; feeling academically shortchanged. "I couldn't find any in Flourish and Blotts when I was there; I looked all over the store, too."

"I got them from the Gringotts Library," Harry answered.

"Gringotts, as in goblins?" Ron interjected.

"I suppose, anyways . . ." Harry resumed but was interrupted.

". . . I'm going to have to go there next time I'm in Diagon Alley," Hermione enthused before saying, "sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—that was rude of me."

"Umm . . . unfortunately 'mione . . ."

"Did you just call me Mione?"

"Hmm . . . I guess I just did. Sorry 'bout that; won't happen again."

"It's . . . It's okay Harry, I guess; I don't really mind, it just sorta surprised me, that's all." Hermione said feeling the unfamiliar touch of affection from someone other than family. "You were saying something about Gringotts."

Harry and Hermione briefly gazed at one another, rather intently surprisingly unbeknownst to the young wizard sharing their compartment.

"Oh yeah," Harry resumed, "it won't do you any good Mione; only wizards and goblins employed by Gringotts can use it and even then it highly restrictive. Um . . . I kinda got special dispensation . . ."

". . . Dispenwhatzit?" Ron felt like he was being left out of the conversation even though the young witch and wizard remained inclusive.

". . . Special permission, oh never mind, Ron," Hermione wanted to hear what Harry had to say and was losing patience with the redhead's futile interruptions.

"Like I was saying," Harry resumed; the envious waves, radiating from the witchling, were almost palatable, "I didn't like what I was reading and it made me think."

"What didn't you like, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"Everything I read—and I mean EVERYTHING—was contradictory, subjective, unsubstantiated, un-provable, conjecture and/or anecdotal at best or—more commonly than not—a bizarre combination of them all," Harry replied with obvious frustration. "It was too metaphysical for my liking, too but the occasional abstract references to things like fields, magical packets, waves and what sounded a lot like something Hiesenberg would say led me back to muggle science and an odd branch of physics."

"You're talking quantum mechanics aren't you?" Hermione asked, obviously fascinated; Ron was adrift—Mid-Pacific no less—when it came to this conversation.

Harry nodded.

"What are you saying?" Hermione asked; she had an idea based on what the green-eyed wizard had posited but wanted to compare their ideas before saying anything, one way or another.

"That there's no such thing as magic," Harry concluded, he had found this rather ironic after living with the Dursleys for so long: kind of amusing as well. This was not what Hermione had had in mind; it showed on her face.

"Say what!" Ron exclaimed; he might not have understood much of what the barmy witch and wizard had been saying but the last part was as clear as a bell. "How can you say that, mate; you're on a train to a school that teaches what you say doesn't exist and you're a student too."

"Let me explain," Harry replied.

"Please do," Hermione almost begged.

"What we commonly assume to be magic, at least as muggles define it in books and movies and on the tele, is nothing more than the manipulation of the wave mechanics associated with energy strings, fields and states through the use of a control device, which happens to be a wizard's mind and wand," Harry stated.

"I can understand that but does it matter what we call it, the results are the same either way," Hermione countered successfully.

"That's true but my real point is that 'magic' isn't some mystical, supernatural or divinely granted power; it's science—pure and simple, well maybe not simple." Harry clarified. "There exists a real and measurable force that appears to follow specific laws; we just don't know how to measure it yet and the reason so little is known about it is because—from my observations, anyways—witches and wizards have never heard of Aristotle or the scientific method: they assume and don't question the status quo: the how and why are unasked, only results are seen."

"This fascinating and all, mate, but wh'd ya bother?" Ron asked and actually surprised Hermione: it was, after all, a rather lucid question.

"I got sidetracked while reading about The Pureblood Hypothesis and the Greater Good by Grindelwald in a history of magic book I read," Harry replied; Hermione and Ron suddenly paled.

"That's some dark history there, mate, I'd keep it to myself if I were you unless you want people to think you're one of You-Know-Who's followers." Ron almost whispered and thought it was a very good time to look out the window again.

"Did I say something wrong?" Harry asked, feeling the heavy atmosphere now filling the compartment; Ron's attention remained on the rapidly passing landscape and Hermione had become quietly pensive.

Time slowed and silence reigned until the three heard the door sliding open. Their eyes snapped to the intrusion; standing at the threshold was a boy with blonde—almost white—hair and a pale pointy face. Two rather burly boys with small shallow eyes and low foreheads flanked the blonde; prime examples of the meaning of atavistic and seemed to exude an unhealthy devotion to the pallid boy they accompanied.

"I'm looking for Potter," the pale boy pronounced imperiously.

_I think I've heard this whiny narcissistic voice somewhere before, _Harry thought before snapping his figurative fingers. _Madam Malkin's, that's it; he was there the first time I was. _Harry took a calculating regard for boy before unkindly thinking: s_kinny Dudley._

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry replied without standing, intentionally, or extending his hand—he didn't like the pinch-faced brat's tone or bearing; although Ron Weasley's classic double take was highly entertaining when the redhead realized whom he had been sharing the compartment with. Another thing Harry noted was Hermione's guarded and contemplative mien: _the young witch is a watcher, clever girl_, he thought, respectfully.

With etiquette demanding that he ignore the obvious slight, the boy forged onward with an extended hand, "I'm Draco Malfoy . . ."

Ron snickered and found himself on the receiving end of the blonde boy's ire. The boy named Draco reeled upon the redhead and glowered. _Wow, that's one well-practiced scowl—beats Dudley's any day, _Harry thought in amusement at the blonde's expense.

"No need to hear your bourgeois voice," Draco virtually hissed; scorn dripping from every word, "I know what you are—red hair, freckles, shabby second hand third rate clothing and a vacant expression: you're Weasley spawn."

Ron was livid but—thankfully—stunned into inaction.

"I don't recognize you, though," the blonde wizard said as he turned and addressed the witch.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she replied without rising, either; her tone and demeanor almost as pretentious as Draco's; Harry found it educational. _She isn't easily cowed, that's for sure; _Harry reasoned as he watched the exchange: he felt a little surge of pride, too; she seemed to like him.

"Granger?" Draco repeated thoughtfully, "I don't know any Grangers and I don't recognize your family's name or lineage; Pureblood?"

"Sorry?" Hermione prompted.

The blonde boy's scowl deepened, "Muggle born or half-blood?"

"My parents are non-magical, if that's what you're asking," the witch answered, dismissive of the boy's posturing and self-inflated ego.

"Listen Malfoy," Harry interceded, bluntly, drawing the Malfoy boy's attention back on himself, "have you got anything actually useful to say or are you just wasting our time."

"You seem to lack the etiquette required when dealing with your betters, Potter; it seems like I will have to educate you about your proper place and the benefits of House Malfoy's favor," Draco blustered; Harry fought laughter. "The first thing you have to do is associate with the right sort and class of people: muggle, muggle-born and dregs without money or status are not our type; well below our place you should know. If you know what's good for you, Potter, you'd drop these—people," he glowered at the witchling as he emphasized 'people' and twisted the word into a disparaging slight before concluding with, "and join me in my compartment, where you belong."

The blonde's derogatory comments had been funny at first but when he decided to include Hermione in his rant, Harry quickly angered. He narrowed his emerald-green eyes to a penetratingly livid glare; a glare that most people would flee for its implicit power and threat that radiated from the young wizard: Draco Malfoy was not most people. The compartment grew noticeably cooler and the hint of ozone scented the air as Harry's anger continued to manifest to its logical and explosive end.

"Push," Harry hissed: an unseen hand shoved Draco Malfoy's silent companions against the wall behind them.

"Pull," he hissed, again: the same invisible hand grabbed the blonde wizard's, as if by his tie, and dragged him harshly into the compartment.

"Close," the emerald-eyed youth commanded in a menacing whisper: the compartment's door slammed shut separating Draco from his menacing looking associates, now ponding on the door they could not open.

Bereft of allies the unpleasant boy found himself facing a very angry Harry Potter; terrified, he almost voided his bladder when he felt strong fingers grip his throat. He felt the door push against his back and himself being lifted to his toes and, once the initial fog of fear cleared, saw cold emerald-eyes, as hard as gemstones, glaring at him and the business end of a wand aimed at his head. Utterly stunned—as were Hermione and Ron, too—Draco had neither seen Harry rise from his seat nor cross the distance between them; effortlessly, he held Malfoy pinned and helpless against the door.

"My betters," Harry didn't yell, he didn't need to, and his quietly menacing tone chilled the boy—whose face was no more than a foot from Harry's—to his very core. "Tell me, Malfoy, are you exceptionally foolish or just plain dumb? Have you got any idea who or what I am? Now take my advice—you brainlessly pretentious wag—forget everything you think you know about me and all that Boy-Who-Lived crap and listen: I'm Harry James—frigging—Potter; I am an emancipated minor and Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. Furthermore, if that doesn't impress or educate you, try this: My betters indeed," Harry scoffed, "I could buy three generations of your family out of vault interest—wouldn't miss the galleons, either—if I thought it would humor me. Now remove yourself from my presence, Draco Malfoy, before I lose what little patience I have left and take your goons with you; they're presence is littering the corridor beyond my door."

With that, Harry released his hold on Draco's throat and the door at the blonde's back; almost instantly, the exit flew open, submitting at last to the efforts of Malfoy's lackeys and the young wizard stumbled into his cronies. Together, they almost fell from the sudden and unexpected impact but they ungracefully stayed on their feet; Malfoy's glare—full of fear and loathing, well mostly fear—remained riveted by the cold flames, dancing in Harry's emerald-green eyes, until he found the strength to finally look away.

"Crabbe, Goyle," Draco turned and addressed his minions, with a sneer, "let's go; me and Potter have an accord. Besides, being so close to rabble and filth has left me feeling unclean."

Harry watched, highly amused by Malfoy's hasty retreat with his buddies—who needed to scurry to keep up with their boss—and thought he heard Draco mumble something sounding like 'wait until my father hears about this' or some other such nonsense. Harry didn't care one way or another; he turned the less than pleasant encounter over a couple of times in contemplation before thinking: _Accord? I think that was more impasse than accord but what do I know; Malfoy's my better, after all. _Harry mentally smirked as he turned from the door and towards the awkward questions that waited for him in the compartment; the first thing he noticed, as he closed the door behind him, was Ron Weasley's open mouthed gape.

"Blimey mate," the red-head exclaimed once he found his voice, "just 'ow rich are you? Three bloody generations out of interest that's frigging amazing—le'me tell you! And are you really that Potter, y'know the Boy-Who-Lived and all?"

Harry tried not to roll his eyes, when Ron uttered his infamous and unwelcome moniker, but failed; he answered the redhead, "I didn't say how many years of interest, now did I, eh?"

Harry glanced at Hermione and winked; she appeared to be deep in thought and didn't really notice when he return to his former place and sat beside her again.

Hermione caught Harry's wink but her mind was busily spinning questions that defied logic and quantifiable answers; it was highly unsettling for the extremely rational young witch. _Did we even see the same thing? _Hermione thought as she glanced at Ron before looking back at Harry. _ Weasley's going on about how rich Harry is—is that all he thinks is important? Is he just ignoring it or is he completely oblivious to that unbelievable display of wandless magic we just witnessed? _She silently questioned; then mentally gushed. _Oh my god—it felt like Harry's magic filled the compartment, its very essence caressing my body. I felt my own magic eager and hungrily reach for him; wanting only to be enfolded in his arms, embraced and swallowed by his very being. _Hermione undeniably reasoned as her magic tugged her towards Harry and her body responded in kind. Flabbergasted and embarrassed, she felt the burgeoning stirrings of what it meant to be a woman and a salacious tingle in her budding maturity; on top of it all, the young Miss Granger had a most unladylike thought: _My knickers have gotten really, really uncomfortable._

"Mione, are you feeling okay?" Harry asked with concern; the witch seemed discomforted and distracted.

Hermione flinched a little, peeked at Harry and then looked at the floor before answering, almost breathlessly, "I . . . I'm okay, just—you know—kind of lost in thought for a moment there; that's all."

Clueless, boy and only eleven; Harry Potter put his concerns to voice and said, "Are you sure, Mione? Your face is flushed and your pupils look dilated: have you got asthma or something, you're breathing kinda funny too."

Hermione intently studied the floor as her cheeks burned and stubbornly refused look at Harry: she shook her head in denial and meekly replied, "No, I don't have asthma or anything; I'm fine, Harry—really I am—don't worry about me, okay."

Harry wasn't convinced but Ron and his not too subtle insensitivity blurted out "Must be a girl thing or something, Harry, my sister's barmy like this sometimes; it'll go away in its own time, trust me mate. Anyways, I'm gonna go find the loo; I haft'ta take a whizz."

"Um . . . thanks mate, like we really needed to hear that," Harry said with appalled and unkind sarcasm.

Ron blanched, remembered Hermione was a girl and stammered, "s . . . s . . . sorry b . . . b . . . 'bout that."

The redhead fled humiliated and hurriedly from the compartment in search of a washroom. Harry and Hermione were, thankfully, alone again.

"I hope Weasley and that Malfoy guy aren't the typical magic kids we'll be meeting at Hogwarts," Harry quipped and Hermione tittered, "their manners and pretensions would drive me batty in no time."

"Tell me about it," Hermione agreed, once again able to look at the handsome young wizard without blushing. _I wish those dammed fluttering butterflies would go away now, thank you,_ she thought before mustering the courage to ask, "Harry, where did you learn the wandless magic you used on Malfoy, it was amazing; kinda scary too."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," Harry said soft and reassuringly, "that pinch faced flaxen haired git got me so mad; it wouldn't have happened if he'd just insulted me—I don't care what he, or anyone for that matter, thinks of me, that's their problem not mine—but when he included you in his miserable little bigoted rant: well, I'm not going to cower or idly stand by when someone insults or bullies my friend."

"You consider me your friend?" Hermione said poignantly wishful.

"Um, I guess . . . if that's alright with you," Harry answered similarly poignant and wishful, too. "Do you want to be my friend?"

"I'd like that very much, Harry, thank you," she replied coyly.

"I don't think you have to thank me for that, Hermione; I'm honored to be your friend, but you're welcome, all the same."

The bushy-haired witchling and green-eyed wizardling shared shy smiles and cherry blossom cheeks; a chaste handshake, which began with a static-like shock that leapt between damp pubescent palms, closed the deal.

"Harry," Hermione began as she reluctantly released her new and first friend's hand, "I still want to learn how and where you learned that bit of magic you used on Malfoy."

"I spent a lot of quality time at Gringotts during August, after I found out about my inheritance," Harry answered. "The goblins were very helpful; they taught me lots about stuff I should and must know."


	3. Chapter 3

**Heirs** **of** **the** **Founders**

**Author's Meanderings:**

A big thanks for all the favorite and follow flags, I really appreciate the interest and find it encouraging—if only real life was more co-operative and stop getting in the way of writing. For all of you who took the time to write reviews—except for 'Guest' that is who seems to have nothing better to do in life but leave anonymous scathing reviews. (I don't know about him/her but I was interested in the opposite sex when I was eleven—not that I could do anything about it, then. Of course, publicly girls were still icky even though they were good kindling to fuel my prepubescent fantasies.) Be that as it may; constructive criticism will be welcomed, flames will be—mostly—ignored and/or plot/character suggestions will be taken under advisement. I also freely admit to the theft of a few verbatim quotes and paraphrasings from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone—I imagine they'll be pretty obvious to all you Harry Potter fans.

Thank you,

Animekitty2

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

**Chapter Three**

Aboard an anachronistic steam train bound for a school of witchcraft and wizardry—no less, Hermione Granger raptly listened to her new friend Harry Potter. He had just told her that he had spent some 'quality' time with the goblins at Gringotts and that he had found them 'helpful'. Both ideas seemed strange to her, albeit limited, experience with the surly creatures.

Hermione and her family had encountered the keepers of Wizarding's wealth when Professor McGonagall had escorted them to Diagon Alley. The experience was a revelation—almost as big as being told Hermione was a witch, although that had explained a myriad of odd experiences when their daughter was either upset or excited—and educational, to say the least.

As dentists, her parents had thought they had a realistic grasp of reality; to find that behind the veneer of modern England lay a world of fantasy novels, like they had read in their youths, required some careful consideration on their part. Professor McGonagall, knowing that the young witch and her parents Dan and Emma had much to talk about had left after dropping and explaining this particular bombshell; she promised to return in a week and hear their decision then. As assured, the Deputy-headmistress returned and was greeted by a bushy-haired bundle of excitement named Hermione Granger; she didn't need to hear the girl's answer, it was obvious—hopefully her parents had agreed.

And so, once Professor McGonagall had secured Dan and Emma's signatures on the myriad of official documents covering secrecy, attendance until the completion of OWLs and assigning Hermione's magical guardianship to some guy named Albus Dumbledore the family and Deputy-headmistress left the Granger home for Diagon Alley. Arriving at The Leaky Cauldron—an almost normal yet grubby looking pub despite its oddly dressed patrons—the Granger Family took their first steps into the Wizarding World.

Leaving the tavern—and 'normal' behind—Professor McGonagall escorted them first to Gringotts. While there, Dan Granger paid Hermione's tuition, thankful that the goblins could directly debit his muggle bank account and exchanged some nice modern, lightweight Pound Sterling banknotes for some rather large anachronistic—shiny and heavy as only gold can be—coins of Wizarding issue called Galleons. Muttering about ruinous exchange rates and something that sounded a lot like 'Vogons', Dan and family left the wizards' bank feeling noticeable poorer and in possession of a heavy coin purse—purchased for a tidy sum from the same goblin who had been their teller—with questions about 'conflict of interest' ideas amongst goblins. Money in hand, the Granger's spent the rest of the day enjoying the wonders of Diagon Alley, buying Hermione's school supplies and a few extras that had peaked their daughter's interest. As the day closed; Minerva—having insisted that Dan and Emma call her by her first name—led the family back to muggle London before apparating away and a promise to visit again, before the start of Hermione's first year.

"Harry," Hermione began, "how much time did you spend with Gringott's goblins and why were they helpful, it seems very out of character from what I've read and experienced."

"I spent every weekday during August, in one form of intensive instruction or another, with them—preparing me for my return to the Wizarding World," Harry answered warily but Hermione noticed the absence of few significant points in his reply.

"Is that so?" Hermione prompted; Harry knew the hazel-eyed witch was suspicious, "I still wonder why the goblins were so accommodating?"

"That's easy," the young wizard responded nonchalantly, "Goblins are always accommodating—for the right price—besides they had a lot of respect for mom: she could manipulate their laws very profitably for her gains. Mind you, she did do it for my sake—just in case, you see—besides, goblins really appreciate being beaten at their own game; they say they learn from it. The other reason is that the Goblin Nation knows I'll represent a powerful block of votes in the Wizengamot, which could be turned to their benefit."

"It sounds like they want to use you," Hermione observed.

"I guess . . .," Harry said.

". . . You guess?" the young witch interjected, "You're okay with that?"

"Sure, why not," Harry countered. "They use me; I use them: we both get what we want; why should I care?"

"But . . . but you're being used," Hermione stated as if that was an argument in its self.

"Using and being used is the way of the world, both magical and non-magical alike, Hermione," Harry tried to soothe, "there is no shame in that and the sooner you understand that the sooner you'll be able to take your desired place in the world and use it to your ambitions and desires."

"Isn't that kinda sorta selfish?" Hermione queried.

"So?"

"Isn't that—I don't know—immoral or something?"

"Is it?" Harry replied, "I don't know, or really care—for what it's worth. I've spent most of my life used and abused; why shouldn't I be selfish? I've never had anyone looking out for me; if I don't, who will? It's not like I plan to walk over corpses—or anything like that—to get what I want but that doesn't mean I'll do nothing to protect myself or advance my ambitions."

"I guess I can sorta understand that," Hermione replied, "it's just that—I don't know—it sounds kinda cynical to me; a little cold, too."

"Perhaps, but I've experienced very little of what you'd call warmth in my life so far nor have I seen much in the way of concern for my best interests to date. While I know that goblins only care about what they might achieve through my wealth or influence; I also know that they won't betray me as long as I remain true to their code of honor. It may not be a perfect or familial but it's a workable relationship that benefits us both in the long run and allows me to take the reins of my future. So, tell me Hermione, who hold the reins to your future; you or someone else?"

"Me of course," she replied earnestly.

"Would you willingly give it to another?" Harry asked.

"Of course not!" Hermione exclaimed. "Although I'd seek advice if I was uncertain from someone with more experience."

"Would you follow their advice without question?"

"Um . . . well . . . if they—I don't know—had more experience wouldn't it be wise? I mean someone in authority must have gotten there for a reason."

Harry turned a scornful gaze to Hermione and said, "How would you know they had your best interests at heart? You'll be living with yourself for the rest of your life, whom will you entrust your future to; other than the person most impacted by today's decisions? If you let others decide for you now, others will decide for you tomorrow and your future will no longer be yours; can you live a life charted by another? It reeks of destiny; personally, I don't like destiny: I want to think I control my future—for too long, my life was in the hands of others; I don't intend to give it back now that it's in mine."

"But Harry . . ." Hermione began, her need for an authority figure anchor seeking fulfillment ". . . how can you pit your knowledge against those with more experience? How can you be certain?"

"I can't," Harry replied, "but I'd rather err on my judgment than the judgment of others—at least when I make a mistake I know who to blame; why suffer for another's bad judgment?"

Hermione thought about what Harry had said and could only say, "When I listen to you I don't hear an eleven year old."

Harry smiled and replied, "Like I said, I'm older than my age."

"I don't understand," Hermione plead.

"Hermione," Harry started, "I would love to explain but I don't think this is the time or place but as soon as I'm certain we won't be overheard I'll tell you everything I can."

"You make it sound like you're keeping some grandiose secret," Hermione said; hoping it came across as the playful banter she intended.

Harry chuckled and replied, "Perhaps not grandiose but I want the world to know as little about me as possible: surprise is a tactical and strategic advantage when backed into a corner."

"Are you expecting to get backed into a corner anytime soon?" The witch teased as she cocked an eyebrow.

Harry's tone and manner became deadly serious; he said, "Someone has tried to kill me once already—got my parents, remember; I will not be a lamb to slaughter for someone with an axe to grind or wanting a footnote in history."

"Who'd want that?" she asked. "You-Know-Who is dead and gone; all the history books agree."

"Is he? Tell me Hermione, what happened to Voldemort's body; where are his remains? I've read the same books as you; didn't you notice that wee oversight; it seemed sorta glossed over to me."

"I suppose so, but—I mean—it's magic and all; I bet all kinds of weird things happen all the time."

"Perhaps," Harry replied, "I won't deny that but still the killing curse, which scholars say is how my parents were killed, backfires when Voldemort uses it on me, a tad too pat and over-simplified answer: I'm not convinced—yet. Besides, it doesn't leave a mark nor known to disintegrate its target."

Hermione thoughtfully considered his words and said, "I understand—I think—but why would they print it if wasn't true?"

"Why indeed?" He answered. "Perhaps someone wanted to give people an end to the war they had been suffering through; alleviate the fear, the feelings of uncertainty and the sense of helplessness that is always there during dark times. Besides, happy and ignorant people are easier to shepherd than the fearful and angry; they don't ask nearly as many questions."

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "People aren't sheep; they're . . . they're people . . ."

". . . don't see much difference myself," Harry interjected; he garnered an angry glare from the witch beside him.

"You are so cynical, Harry," she stated. "I mean I kinda understand it a little from what you've told me about your life; I haven't had the best experiences either and my social skills are sorta weak but I've tried to remain positive and forgiving. Anyways, I want to think people are better than that; that I can find someone strong to trust and to take care of me and to know what's best for me."

"Hermione," Harry almost whispered, "do you really mean that?"

"_Hermione, honey," _the young witch remembered her mother saying the day before, _"remember you're not a normal girl; that your needs—as precocious as they are—are echoes of my own and need a firm and loving hand to sate. You must remain guarded and not give of yourself too easily lest the wrong sort learns of your proclivity. Don't rush into anything; take the time to find a partner who'll treat you properly, like the gift you are deserves: like we have." "Where do I look," _Hermione remembered asking, _"You and Aunt Nancy have daddy; how do I find the person who'll know what I need and how to treat me right." "Perhaps,"_ she remembered her mother's soothing tone, _"you'll find the right someone at your new school; if you think you have but they lack experience daddy and I will gladly help them. We'll ensure they know their responsibilities towards our daughter and those inclined to be part of your lives—only the best for our little pet." "How will I know if they have no experience," _the young witch almost begged. _"Trust me honey, you'll know, we always know, when we meet our needed; it'll feel right and if it doesn't: run away!" _Hermione remembered her mother had implored.

"Why do you ask?" Hermione cagily asked; thinking she may have given away more about herself than might be prudent.

"The idea of submission bothers me," Harry replied, "at least when it comes to me being the submissive one; I won't be a puppet to anyone, anymore—why should you? I intend to control my life and the things I do and own in a manner that most pleases and serves me. I vowed that to myself after learning I had a life beyond the Dursleys and number four Privet Drive—I will be my own man: the goblins said that—actually it was 'be your own goblin' but you get the general idea."

Harry smiled.

Once again, Hermione felt the tug on her blossoming maturity as this boy spoke, unknowingly, to her deepest and most intimate self. _Have I found the one already? _She asked herself. _ Am I this lucky—I hope—mommy and daddy will be so happy, if it's true—I need to be sure; it feels right._

"Harry," Hermione said almost breathlessly, "I'd like to be there with you—may I, if it pleases you?"

Harry heard her words but it was more than just a pretty girl wanting to be his friend: something more, something intimate and feral and the young wizard was confused when he looked at the beautiful young witch; unknown feelings and desires stirred deep within him.

"Um . . . I guess, if you really want that Mione I don't mind, really, it's nice to have a friend," Harry said.

Hermione's response was a hug like he had never felt before; it felt nice but made him feel funny—a good funny, but funny all the same: Harry liked it, a lot.

"Did the goblins teach you wandless magic?" Hermione asked, shifting their conversation away from thoughts too soon to contemplate; let alone speak of.

Her words returned Harry's wandering and questioning mind to the compartment; he replied, "It's not something you need to learn; it's something you need to remember—that's what they taught me, anyways."

"But magic needs a focus," she repeated what she had read.

"No," He replied, "magic needs focus; not 'a' focus. All witches and wizards do wandless magic—at least when they're young—the Ministry for Magic wants us to think we need wands: it's easier for them to monitor."

"Ministry of Magic," Hermione unconsciously corrected.

Harry cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Mione, what do you know about that Statute of Secrecy?"

"It's kinda like the wizards' Magna Carta, right?" she replied, secure in her knowledge.

"True," Harry agreed, "but to whom does it swear fealty?"

Hermione looked blankly at Harry.

"Have you ever read it," he asked, "the real document, that is; not the Ministry approved fiction that they pass off and most magical folk blindly accept with barely a bleated baa?"

Ignoring Harry's insultingly cynical slant, the young witch looked thoughtful and replied, "I've never seen it but I've read about it in 'The History of Magic in England, Scotland and Wales' so I know what it says—it separates Magical Britain from Muggle Britain and assures autonomy."

"It's more about practiced non-interference than autonomy," Harry told her.

"Practiced non-interference?"

"The Statute recognizes that 'due to the inherent differences between magicals and non-magicals The Crown establishes an austere house of loyal peerage to oversee, on behalf of His or Her Majesty, the preternatural and enforce The Crown's will through means only available to like kind'," he quoted.

"You're talking about the Wizengamot," Hermione realized.

"Good girl," her heart leapt at his praise as he continued his explanation. "From there it provides a framework of self-regulation and governance in exchange for the withdrawal of the small minority from normal government to avoid the undue influence that magic would naturally have—at least that was the intent."

"What do you mean 'intent'?" The young witch asked.

"The intent was to keep magicals sworn to the crown, but separated from non-magicals, so their abilities could be called upon in times of need but over time the two sides—magical and non-magical—drifted further and further apart. Eventually, the magicals forgot about fealty and their vows; they thought themselves a nation unto theirselves—they are deluded."

"Deluded?"

Harry studied the pretty witch and replied, "While the Wizengamot and everyday magicals have forgotten that they are foresworn to The Crown, The Crown has not but allows this level of autonomy because people who don't think they're being watched will behave in their naturally non-inhibited manner and remain easier to monitor."

"I think I understand but, Harry, what can The Crown do if the magicals—I don't know—misbehave for lack of a better word."

With an amused emerald sparkle in his eyes the young wizard answered, "If The Crown decides that the magicals are 'misbehaving'—as you've so eloquently put it—Her Majesty can invoke the Clause of Interdiction."

"The what?" Hermione responded with curiosity, "I haven't heard of that in any of the books I've read?"

Harry smiled and said, "Not surprising, you're not supposed to know—knowledgeable people ask difficult questions and demand dangerous answers; the powers that be don't want anyone know that there is a superseding authority."

"But what could this 'superseding authority', which I take is The Crown, do—they don't have magic so how do they enforce the clause: how can they or it make a difference?"

"It interdicts wizards, who hold seats in The Wizengamot, of their ability to use magic until they present themselves to The Crown and reaffirm their Vow of Fealty to Her Majesty's satisfaction."

Hermione looked stunned; Professor McGonagall never mentioned any of this when she initially explained The Statute of Secrecy to the Grangers: from how she explained it the worlds of the magical and the mundane rarely crossed and when they did, it was usually accidental.

"Shall I hammer another nail into the coffin of what you've been told about the separation between magical and non-magical UK, Hermione?"

The young witch could only nod.

"You know that England used to be on the Gold Standard, right?"

Hermione nodded again.

"Did you ever wonder where all that gold was?"

She shook her head.

Harry reached into his pocket, pulled out a Galleon and flipped the gold coin in the air before deftly catching and handing it to Hermione; she looked at it with confusion.

"That my lovely friend," Harry's use of the word friend and lovely caused Hermione's heart to skip a beat, "is the physical form of Great Britain's gold reserves: the goblins take care of it."

Silence reigned for a moment before Hermione said, "Are you implying that The Crown and the goblins work together?"

"I'm not implying; they do and it's not just the goblins in cohorts with The Queen but many other sentient creatures as well. The Crown recognizes them in the same manner that they recognize us and The Wizengamot but due to the structure and wording of the Statute of Secrecy these races are under the auspices of The Ministry for Magic and The Crown cannot intervene—actively or surreptitiously—in matters of Wizengamot jurisprudence."

_Surreptitiously? Jurisprudence? _Hermione thought as she digested an answer unexpected from most adults, let alone a prepubescent schoolboy, and concluded:_ I've more to learn than just magic and I think Harry is saying more than he should; he should be careful and not come across too outspoken._ On top of that, she thoughtfully asked: _Who is this Harry Potter person? As soon as I can, I'll write mom and dad and find out what they think—Aunt Nancy too, she's pretty smart about this stuff and might have something useful to say; I'll just not mention magic._

"You're suddenly pensive, Hermione," Harry said with concern.

"Are you really only eleven, Harry?" She asked redundantly.

"Wanna see my birth certificate?"

His irreverent, off the cuff, remark cut through the thick atmosphere that had filled the compartment; both children laughed.

Pushing mirth aside, Hermione became serious and said, "Harry, I think you need to be careful with what you say out loud; I get the feeling that you could get into a lot of trouble if the wrong people hear you."

Harry chuckled and said, "The goblins keep telling me I lack discretion—even though they agree with me—but I feel I can talk freely with you and you wouldn't believe how good that makes me feel. Still, I guess my Slytherin ambitions will come to naught; after all, snakes are usual pretty good at the closed mouth thing—well, except for that Malfoy guy—they only speak when it's to their advantage."

"I thought you didn't know about house traits," Hermione pointed out.

"I said that just to play with that Weasel . . ."

". . . Weasley . . ."

". . . guy," Harry replied with a smirk."

"That wasn't very nice of you," Hermione sternly said.

"I'm not too concerned; he was almost as bad as that tosser Draco Malfoy," he said in his defense, "besides, I didn't connect to what he said at first—it had been a while since I read Hogwarts: A History.

"I don't think he was that bad," Hermione retorted in the boy's absence.

"Perhaps not," Harry considered, "but his manners were atrocious and I didn't like the way he lit up when I said I could buy three generations of Malfoys with vault interest."

"At least you said it would take a long time, once Draco left anyways," Hermione said.

"Actually, I said 'I didn't say how many years of interest now did I'," Harry said, smiling, "I didn't attach any time to that, the young master Weasley just assumed."

"Still, you weren't really serious about buying Draco's family were you?" Hermione asked playfully.

"Naw," Harry replied, "what would I do with his family; still his family assets might be worth a looksee."

"That wasn't really funny, you know," the young witch said.

"Who said I was trying to be funny?" He simply replied.

Unable to answer, Hermione found herself staring at the enigma named Harry Potter. Silence settled upon their compartment as both children withdrew into their private thoughts and considered the other. The steady rhythm of wheels against rail provided a gentle counterpoint to the quiet symphony of deliberation that neither child found uncomfortable or boring. To each, time became no more than numbers of a sixty base as their magics combined and wove a tapestry of connection that joined their complementary traits. It was into this loom of harmony that a gentle rap, on the compartment door, roused a snoozing owl.

"Hoot?"

Hedwig's voice drew the two children from their rapt contemplations with a start as another knock—a little more insistent this time—called for their attention.

"Come in," Harry replied but thought in trepidation, _hope it's not Malfoy again._

The door slowly slid open as Harry and Hermione waited to see who was on the other side; each hoped for a worthwhile and pleasant encounter after the rather unsavory experience that Draco Malfoy had left in their mouths. After what felt like a mind numbingly long time, the door was opened by a chubby boy their; he oozed an air of apprehension and insecurity that Harry's aunt and uncle had failed to beat into their nephew.

"Um . . ." the boy struggled to say, his eyes unable to meet either Hermione's or Harry's.

"Can we help you?" Hermione asked in the gentlest tone she could muster.

He intently studied the floor and took a shallow breath before blurting out, "Haveyouseentrevor?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged puzzled glances before answering in unison, "Sorry?"

"My toad," he replied, remembering to space his words, "his name is Trevor; have you seen him?"

"No toads here mate, just an owl, sorry," Harry replied, his response garnering an indignant hoot from Hedwig. "Sorry Your Majesty, I didn't mean to impugn upon your nobility, please forgive your humble servant," he formally addressed his feathery friend.

Hermione smiled—as the timid newcomer looked at Harry as if he were barmy—and suggested, "Why don't you ask an older student or a prefect to summon him for you?"

"I . . . I ne . . . never thought of that, thank you Miss . . ."

". . . Granger, Hermione Granger; just call me Hermione," she said with a sincere smile. "Hedwig's servant calls himself Harry."

"Hedwig?"

"My owl, mate, and I'm not her servant; Miss Granger's or Hedwig's grand allusions notwithstanding," Harry replied with a smile.

"**HOO . . . HOOT!"** Hedwig's tone sounded surprisingly piqued.

"Well, not all of the time," Harry amusingly backpedaled.

Harry's words brought a shy smile to the boy's face and a calmer mien to his manner as he said, "Sorry to bug you, I'll just go and find a prefect or something—thanks for the idea."

"When you find Trevor, why don't you come back and join me and Hermione?" Harry invited.

"C . . . Can I?"

"Up to you," Harry replied.

"Th . . . Thanks, by the way, I'm Neville."

"You're welcome, Neville," Hermione said with a smile that painted the chubby boy's cheeks faded pink.

In quest of a toad named Trevor, Neville turned from Hermione and Harry's chamber, slid the door shut and resumed his search.

"Think he'll find Trevor?" Harry asked.

"Maybe," Hermione answered, "as long as the toad is still on the train, there's a chance but it's hard to say—it may have been stepped on or eaten by someone's pet; I'm sure Hedwig wouldn't minded the snack."

"Naw, Hedwig doesn't like French cuisine, it upsets her tummy," Harry said with a grin, "she's a bacon bird—she's loves her bacon."

"Hoo!"

"See?" He said as he smiled at the owl.

"You and Hedwig seem very close," Hermione observed, "how long has she been your pet?"

"Hedwig's not a pet, she's my familiar," Harry corrected, "I've had her since my eleventh birthday; Hagrid bought her for me."

"Is there a difference," Hermione sounded puzzled, "you know, between pet and familiar?"

"Loads," he replied, "familiars and partners form a lifelong bonded link that can only be broken by the death of one or the other; that link affords all sorts of possibilities."

"What sort of possibilities?" The hazel-eyed witch was extremely curious.

"Well, for starters," Harry began, "Hedwig and I understand each other far better than if she were just a pet."

"You're not going to tell me you can talk to her I hope," Hermione teased.

"Not talk, per se; not like you and me anyways," he answered, "it's more an exchange of feelings and images—animals, well owls anyhow, don't think in symbols or words or abstracts; it's really hard to explain to someone who hasn't experienced it first hand: it's like I feel like I know what she's telling me."

"Are you certain you're not just—I don't know—projecting what you think she's thinking?"

"I'm certain," Harry stated, "and it's not just that, Hermione, when I focus on the bond between us, if she isn't too far away, I catch glimpses of what she sees and hears; I was told it gets better over time and with practice."

Hermione glanced from Hedwig back to Harry and said, "That sounds so cool, I wish I could do that."

"I'm told only a few of any species can become true familiars and then only to certain witches or wizards; there is no certain way to—I don't know—fudge the odds, sorry Hermione: I got lucky."

"That doesn't mean it can't happen for me," Hermione said, nibbling her bottom lip as she sulked.

"If I was a kneazel, I'd happily be your familiar, Hermione," Harry said trying to cheer her up.

Hermione smile and asked, "Why a kneazel?"

"Well, as a kneazel, I could snuggle into your lap and when you pat me I could nuzzle and lick you and purr," Harry turned beat red when he realized what he had said; a moment later, Hermione was the same shade and then they burst with laughter. Into this cacophony of mirth, Neville returned, Trevor in hand and a redheaded prefect who looked somewhat familiar, in tow.

"We'll be getting to Hogsmeade in less than an hour," the redhead said; his voice dripped conceit, "I suggest you robe up."

"Yes sir, as you wish sir," Harry mocked playfully as he performed a sloppy salute.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "He's a prefect, you should be more respectful."

"You need to listen to the little girl—Harry was it?" The redheaded teen said with a glare at Harry, "If you want to be successful at Hogwarts—like me—you'd best learn some respect when speaking to your upperclassmen or teachers and if you'd been sorted I'd recommend that you lose your house points for that attitude of yours."

"I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again," Harry said in ersatz sincerity, the prefect never noticing Harry's sardonic smile or tone.

"That's better," the oblivious redhead said, "the little witch looks like she'll be prosperous at school and may well be a prefect—like me—someday; she's got the proper deferential attitude to be successful: you'd best be heeding the little girl's properness and emulate her, young man."

"I'll try," Harry replied without a hint of sincerity but the prefect, as thick as a brick it seemed, turned from the compartment smugly thinking he had set a firsty on the proper path.

Neville and Trevor entered the compartment and—as soon as he slid the door shut—Hermione exploded, "Little girl! Why that pompous, good for nothing, pretentious . . ."

". . . prick," Harry offered, which encouraged a timid smile from Neville.

"Yeah!" Hermione agreed venomously, "he thinks he's so good being a Hogwarts prefect and all; all that makes him is an accomplished suck up with good grades!"

"But Mione, there goes the more experienced person you were talking about . . ."

Hermione glared at Harry and Neville, who—unfortunately—was standing near Harry and barked, "I'm changing into my robes, give me ten minutes."

Harry quickly rose, followed Neville out of the compartment with haste, and slid the door closed behind him. With the door closed, he noticed Hermione's glowering face as she closed the privacy blind.

"Is . . . Is she always like that?" a shell-shocked Neville asked.

"Don't know, mate, just met her but I hope not," Harry replied, "she's too pretty to harbor such ugliness.

Harry's answer drew a penetrative gaze from Neville before he replied, "I guess."

"So—Neville, wasn't it?—where did you leave your stuff?"

"It's with Susan and Hanna, I was sitting with them before Trevor got away," Neville replied as he pointed to a compartment four doors from Harry and Hermione's.

"Who's Susan and Hannah, your girlfriends?" Harry teased.

"They're not my girlfriends! Susan's aunt, The Lady Bones, is a friend of my grans," Neville replied a little red faced, "I've known Susan since, like, forever and Hanna's her best friend but I don't really know her that good—her family is in a different social circle, we don't cross paths very much."

"Oh, I see, casual squeezes," Harry further ribbed to Neville's disdain before noticing how uncomfortable and red the shy boy had become, "Sorry mate, I'm being insensitive."

"It's okay," he replied bashfully as he began walking to the other compartment, Harry followed.

Reaching their destination, Neville tentatively knocked on the compartment door.

"Who is it?" a girl answered from inside.

"It's me," Neville answered.

"Who's me?"

"You know, Neville and Harry," the shy boy replied.

"Who's Harry?" a girl with long plaited red hair asked when the door slid open.

"I'm Harry," Harry smiled and, extending his arm, shook the hand of the girl at the door.

"Hi, I'm Susan," the girl replied as she returned the smile, "Susan Bones and that's Hannah Abbott over there. Did you find Trevor, Neville?"

"I did, a prefect helped me by summoning him," Neville answered, "I don't think Trevor liked it though."

Susan and Hannah giggled as Neville proudly presented his toad.

"We'll be at Hogsmeade soon, a prefect just told us," Susan said, "me and Hannah were about to put on our robes."

"That's why I'm here, my robe is in my carry-on," he replied, "I just need to get it and throw it over my clothes."

"Yucky," Hannah said, "how can boys do that; my mommy always says a proper girl only wears unmentionables under her robe and then only if it's cold."

At the mention of unmentionables, Harry and Neville grew a little pink and uncomfortable; the two girls noticed and began to giggle.

"What are you boys thinking," Hannah taunted as she handed Neville his bag from the overhead rack.

"Th . . . thanks Hannah, Susan; Harry and I will leave you t . . . two alone to ch . . . change," Neville managed as he took hold of his carry-on; Susan closed the door and drew the blind.

"Now what?" a flustered Neville turned to Harry and asked.

"I guess we go back, I hope Hermione isn't so prim—she's muggle born after all—and has just put her robes over her clothes; otherwise, we'll be waiting in the corridor," Harry said with a shrug.

The young wizards returned to Harry's compartment; without knocking or thought, Harry opened the door in time to see Hermione's school robe falling past and covering pink panties.

"Don't you know to knock!" Hermione yelled before turning around very red faced.

"S . . . Sorry Hermione, I wasn't thinking," Harry tried to appease the young and angry witch; only to put his foot in his mouth, "besides it's not like Neville or anyone else saw anything, just me."

"And that makes it okay!" Hermione's anger was undiminished.

"I . . . I said sorry, what more can I say," Harry stammered, "it's not like I meant to sneak a peek at your pink panties or cute tush."

The young wizard's response earned him a bright red hand-print on his cheek and a small and embarrassed smile from Neville; he received a wilting glare from the hazel eyed and angry—to the point of blue static dancing over brown tresses—witch.

"Mione, calm down," Harry implored, firmly, "your magic is manifesting visibly and you may do something, which may bring grief to us all. You don't want to start your first term at Hogwarts as the witch who fried two fellow students; now, control yourself!"

Harry's firm words and tone reach the Hermione behind the anger and slowly the young witch calmed down.

"I'll forgive you this time, Harry, but you'd better knock before opening a door in future," she said as her anger cooled further.

"I will, I promise," Harry pacified.

"Do you really think I have a cute tush?" flabbergasted, Hermione slapped her hands over her mouth; as a wide-eyed Harry Potter cycled through various hues of pink before she recovered, "Don't answer that!"

"Um . . . okay, Mione," he promised.

"I'll step out and give you a chance to change," Hermione said.

"You don't got to do that," Harry informed.

"What," she began, "I don't intend to stay in a room when a boy's changing; what type of girl does that?"

"Honestly, it isn't necessary Hermione. I'm just putting my robe on over my clothes; it's too much hassle doing anything else today."

"I guess," the young witch conceded, "but I still need to step out for a bit."

"Why?" Harry asked innocently, "where do you need to go?"

Hermione's face flushed as she hastily exited the compartment and briskly walked away.

"What you suppose that was all about?" Neville asked naively clueless.

_And I thought I didn't get girls, _Harry thought before answering, "Not important mate, I'm sure she'll be back soon."

"You think?" Neville fumbled on. "I mean we kinda walked in on her changing, maybe she's too angry or embarrassed to want to sit with us?"

"Nah, she's not going nowhere; see, she left her book bag behind." Harry reassured as he stepped into the compartment he'd been sharing and sat.

"Take a seat, Neville," Harry invited as he pointed to the bench across from him.

The timid boy answered with a brief nod of his head before entering the compartment; he closed the door and took the indicated seat. As he settled, an air of shy discomfort also settled upon the boys within, as neither knew what now to say. Harry studied the other boy; reflected there was the image of the person his aunt and uncle had failed to make their nephew and it made him think. _He's completely lacking any sort of confidence, _Harry thought, _and has absolutely no sense of self—who would do that to him? I'm admittedly shy and Hermione is obviously protecting herself after being hurt too often but we're both aware of our worth, to ourselves at least. It's like he's never been told he's done something well or trusted to make any decisions for himself—it's criminal, almost. _Harry found himself mentally ranting. _I may not've received any encouragement from Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon but I always knew I was better than Dudley at everything but being mean-spirited, eating copious amounts of whatever was placed in front of me or avoiding effort. I wonder if Neville even thinks he can do something right without second-guessing himself._ Harry concluded with mental scowl and a silent vow to try to help the insecure boy before him.

"So Neville, where're y'from?" Harry asked; his not loud voice exploded from the awkward silence cloaking them.

With a bit of a start, he answered, "Longbottom Manor."

"Sorry, never heard of it," Harry said, "is it a small village? What's the nearest big town? I live in Little Whinging, that's in Surrey—you know, just outside of London."

"I've never heard of Surrey but Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic are in London, I think—as far as I know," Neville answered a now dumbstruck Harry Potter.

Confused, Harry asked, "You think? I'm not sure about the Ministry for Magic but Diagon Alley is definitely in London. Help me here; I'm trying to place Longbottom Manor on my mental map of England: what do you see when you're going somewhere?"

"The place I'm going to, what else?" Neville replied, as confused as Harry was.

"I mean—like when you and your family are driving somewhere—what places do you pass?"

"Driving?" Neville said thoughtfully, "oh, I get it now but the stables at Longbottom Manor have been empty for years—we a have some carriages but they haven't been used in ages, either."

"How do you go anywhere, then?" Harry asked, his head having a hard time wrapping around horses and carriages.

"You know, the usual ways: flooing, portkeys, sidelong apparition," he answered. "It all depends on where me and grans are going I guess."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," a muddled muggle-raised wizard began, "but it sounds like you're telling me you've only ever traveled by magic."

"Well yeah, how else would we go anywhere?"

"Muggle raised mate," Harry replied, "I've never experienced any form of magical travel—other than the Knight Bus, that is. Don't take this the wrong way but it sounds like you don't know where you live."

"I told you; I live in Longbottom Manor," the baby-faced wizard began, actually sounding a little irritated, "oh, I get what you mean now, Harry, you're asking where Longbottom Manor is."

"Yes."

"I don't rightly know—is it important? Come to think of it, I don't even know if I've even physically crossed the estate's ward boundaries—never felt the need or much reason to."

Unsure of what to say next, the two wizards were saved from another awkward silence by the return of Hermione. The returning young witch bathed in the warmth of Harry's smile and found herself drawn to sit at her first friend's side.

"So, what've you boys been talken 'bout?" she asked, no vestige of her earlier anger or awkwardness remained.

Harry smiled whimsically and said, "We've been talking about how Neville doesn't know where he lives."

Hermione was sure she had heard Harry correctly but found her usually lucid response reduced to, "Huh?"

"Harry's right, Hermione," Neville replied with slightly pink cheeks—he wasn't used to talking to people he hadn't known for a long time. "I've only ever traveled with magic, the actual location of my home was never important enough to know. I don't got the best memory anyways so if I was told, I don't remember."

It was to Harry's great relief when he felt the Hogwarts Express begin to slow—he was anything but willing to do the whole 'where do you live' thing with Hermione; his brain hurt enough now, realizing how little magical folk seemed to know about the world around them: if Neville was a typical example—as their destination drew near. His eyes locked with Hermione's, briefly, before both children looked to the window with expectation; unfortunately, night had conspired with suspense to leave nothing more than a dark curtain for them to see. Still, even with their destination embraced by night, Harry and Hermione found themselves fighting the happy dance they were certain Neville wouldn't understand: after all, what normal kid looks forward to school?

"We're here!" Hermione squealed to her mortification, as the train jerked to a stop, and suddenly the floor was very interesting to her.

"Attention all students, please leave all carry-on items with your trunks—which have been arranged alphabetically on the platform—upon disembarking: your possessions will be transported to your assigned dorms and will be there by the completion of the Sorting and Welcoming feast," a disembodied voice boomed over the noise hundreds of unsupervised children could make.

"Sorry Hedwig, I guess that means the cage for now," Harry said in response to the snowy owl's baleful stare, which came with being confined to her wire prison again, "I promise I'll give you lots of snacks, later—maybe I'll even smuggle you something from dinner; if it's worthy of your distinguishing palate that is."

"Blimey mate," the less than welcome voice of Ron Weasley rose from the direction of the compartment door—he hadn't knocked again, "you're gonna spoil yer bird if ya keep that up."

"She's already spoiled, too late now. Ron, wasn't it?" Harry said.

"I was sitting with Fred and George for a bit," Ron stated matter-of-factly, "but I didn't want to leave you feeling like I abandoned you—you two. Who are you?"

Knowing who was being addressed by the redhead's question the chubby, shy, young wizard answered, "I'm Neville—Neville Longbottom."

"Of the . . . the Noble and Mo . . . Most Ancient House?" Ron stammered, almost falling over himself to extend his hand to Neville.

With a touch of distaste, Neville glanced at the sweaty—was that melted chocolate on his fingers?—appendage offered by the redhead before shaking it, "Well yeah . . . I guess."

"I'm really pleased to meet you, Neville," Ron replied with no sense of etiquette, "and if you need a hand with stuff; I'm more than willing to help since these muggle-born and raised know noth'n 'bout magic or the world."

Hermione and Harry knew the redhead wasn't being intentionally insulting, like Draco Malfoy had been, but they still glowered at him; meanwhile Neville looked like he wished to be anywhere but here or shaking Ron Weasley's sticky hand.

"Thanks, I guess," Neville responded with a sympathetic glance towards Harry and Hermione.

"Well," Harry began, Hedwig and cage firmly in hand, "we'd best get moving . . . don't want to keep others waiting."

With his free hand, Harry took one of Hermione's and guided the young witch past Ron and out of the compartment. Together they made their way from the train and over to the neatly arranged student luggage rows where they found their trunks. They left their carry-ons—Hedwig included, much to the owl's distress—and found themselves wondering where they should go next. Their question was soon answered by the sound of a loud voice towards the end of the luggage line.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry? Who's y'friend?"

"Hi Hagrid, I'm good—this is Hermione Granger," Harry introduced the young witch, completely oblivious to that fact he was holding her hand: Hagrid, for all people might think him slow, wasn't oblivious and smiled a knowingly at the two preteens.

"Gla' ta see ya make'n friends there, Harry," Hagrid said with a smile, "nice ta meet ya Hermione."

"Thank you, nice to meet you too," Hermione replied—her shyness returning with vigor—as Hagrid's giant hand engulfed the proffered young witch's.

Somewhere behind Harry and Hermione a girl whispered loud enough to be heard, "Do you know who they are; are they boyfriend and girlfriend? Kinda young to be like that, don't ya think?"

Furtively blushing, the young witch and wizard walked past Hagrid and waited for the remaining first year's to join them. Soon, Neville joined them—unfortunately, Ron Weasley too—as the last stragglers caught up.

With his big hairy face beaming over a sea of young heads; Hagrid called, "C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

The body of first years followed Hagrid down a narrow—for the large man, that was; normal sized humans were fine, though—path. The group stepped cautiously in the meager light of their guide's bobbing lantern and from the shadows, every now and then; a displeased mutter suggested a student had stumbled.

_Geez, what's with these magic folk; don't wizards even know about liability? _Harry thought uncharitably as he stumbled and almost fell, thankfully he didn't: he would've taken Hermione with him if he had, her death clutch on his hand would've guarantied it. _That's some grip there, Hermione, _he silently concluded.

"Sorry Hermione," Harry whispered.

"I'm good, Harry. You?" She replied in kind.

"Never better," was his murmured response as he thought;_ I wonder what dear cousin Dudley would think if he saw me holding Hermione's hand, she's such a pretty girl? He probably still thinks girls are icky; I imagine it be something stupidly unpleasant knowing him, though._

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, 'jus' round this bend here."

True to Hagrid's word, Hermione and Harry rounded the bend and found themselves struck speechless and awed as the huge castle that was Hogwarts was revealed for the first time. Across a mirrored black expanse, their new school stood as a sentry overlooking a lake. Hogwarts' reflection—upon that still surface—created the surreal image of it floating in space: the castle and the cliff upon which it was perched began and ended in the sky. Above and below, a myriad of stars sparkled like gems—casually strewn across the curtain of night—stood in contrast to the many ordered windows dotting the castle's walls; those windows twinkled in warm invitation to children now shivering from anticipation and the night's chilled air.

"I hope they're not expecting us to swim," Harry quietly quipped facetiously.

"Of course not, that'd be silly," Hermione countered, so enthralled by the visage that she didn't hear his droll tone, "they've boats for us, see."

Harry followed the line of Hermione's pointed finger and saw a small fleet of rowboats clustered at water's edge, waiting expectantly to ferry them across the last leg to new beginnings.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointlessly pointing at the little boats.

Harry and Hermione picked their way cautiously to the shore, stepped aboard an empty craft and took a seat. They were happy to see Neville joining them; unfortunately, Ron Weasley—having grafted himself to plump son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom—was there too. The two boys boarded the boat and settled opposite of Hermione and Harry; they unknowingly harbored the same harsh thought: _Could've been worse—might've been Malfoy instead of Weasley—thank heaven for minor mercies._

"Everyone in?" Boomed Hagrid, who had a boat to himself, "Right then—FORWARD!"

Like a waterborne caravan, the little boats queued themselves into a neat line and headed out across the lake. From the rear, Hagrid's ever-vigilant eyes monitored his charges and ensured all remained safe from happenstance and tomfoolery. Quiet reigned and the children remained transfixed on the castle, which grew with every passing second as they grew nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid, quite unnecessarily—he was the only one who really had to worry—as the first boats reached the cliff, passed through an ivy curtain and entered a dark tunnel, which had to have taken them under the castle.

At last, the boats moored at an underground harbor and excited students clambered ashore under Hagrid's watchful eyes. The large man led them up a passageway through the rock and onto a grassy apron abutting the castle walls. Under the shadow of Hogwarts, Hagrid led them to a flight of stone steps, which they climbed to a large landing in front of a huge oak door. Milling about expectantly, the young witches and wizards stood as Hagrid's gigantic fist knocked three times on the castle door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Heirs** **of** **the** **Founders**

**Author's Notes:**

Again, thank you for following, favoriting and reviewing my efforts; it's very encouraging and inspiring. To my negative reviewers, you don't have to read this so why bother telling me you don't like it (I mean this especially for the people who think they can trash me but have no stories on FFN of their own for me to gain wisdom from), get a life or give me constructive criticism!

On another note: I've quoted and paraphrased throughout this chapter more than l like but it seemed the best way to handle certain things. I think I've got to the point that everything beyond this chapter should be 100% Animekitty2, we shall see I guess.

Keep the private messages and reviews flowing, I really appreciate them and wish my other story 'A Rainyday Tale' was as popular. Yeah, I know: that was a shameless plug; what can I say, working on something generating little interest isn't inspiring, even though I'm quite certain it can stand alone without needing to be being familiar with its source (although the source is about a preteen wizard with glasses and a bunch of pretty girls; anime and manga are much freer media)

Beat wishes,

Animekitty2

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

**Chapter Four**

The door swung open at once to reveal a tall, stern faced, black-haired witch wearing a robe that matched Harry's eyes. _Yikes, _Harry thought as he looked at an older witch of severe appearance; _don't wanna tick her off if I want my happy school life to end how it began: all bits still attached._

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Are they all here?" she asked as she studied the fresh-faced group milling beyond the threshold.

"O'course they are pr'fessor, all presen' an' accounted fer, I a'counted them m'self, an' all 'n one piece I might add." Hagid seemed proud of his achievement.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," Professor McGonagall said before austerely instructing the children. "Follow me please."

After pulling the door fully open, she turned on her heel—crisp enough to satisfy the most stringent old drill-sergeant—and led the new students into an entrance hall so large it could house an average home and was lit entirely by bright torches: it was so high that its ceiling remained essentially invisible. It's other dominating feature—other than cavernously titanic—was the grand marble staircase reaching for the upper floors. Harry and Hermione, carefully ensconced in the midst of new students, gaped in wonder at the engineering impossibility, which stood defiantly against the structural conventions of their old world.

"How . . .?" Hermione whispered essentially to herself; not expecting an answer, which Harry provided nevertheless.

"Magic I assume," he said and both children concluded that that was an answer to internalize at once.

Without rejoinder, either witty or of rebuttal, Hermione remained silent. She wasn't the only one, the only sounds they heard were the steady footfalls against the well-worn flags of the floor and, to the right, hundreds of voices murmured in din but the witch they knew as Professor McGonagall led them into an empty side-chamber instead.

Addressing the new students for the first time, she began, "The start-of-term feast will soon commence but first you will be sorted into your houses. Your house will be an important part of your Hogwarts experience; it will be like your family, even after you graduate and likely into your futures as well."

_Great,_ Harry dejectedly thought while considering that little implication, _more family—that's just what I need—and just like family I don't get to choose who they are, wonderful. Still, I doubt it'll be as bad as the Dursleys—I hope—and sharing house with Hermione wouldn't be so bad; I'll keep my fingers crossed._

"While at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall continued, "you'll earn your house points for triumphs and loses for rule-breaking. Come June, the house with the most points wins the coveted House Cup. With that, I'll leave you to tidy yourselves up before the Sorting begins.

With another crisp pivot, the green clad witch marched from the chamber as the children pondered her words. Hermione and Harry—with Neville and Ron nearby—stood as their only little group within the main body of others; nursing their own thoughts.

"I 'ope this sort'n thing don't take up too much time, I'm starving mate," Ron said overly loudly to the others dismay; it drew the unwelcome attention of the pointy faced blonde with the well-practiced scowl.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter," Draco Malfoy said loud enough for all to hear, "do you have to surround yourself with losers. Not content with a mudblood and a pauper, you hav'ta go'n add a squib to your entourage. Once more, let me give you some welcome advice; drop the dregs and join me where you belong. Morgana's knickers, it's embarrassing to be in the same school with them and with 'em so close, I'll need to air my robes to rid them of their stench. You'll be so much better with me letting you stay with me; the Malfoy name is about power and wealth and not to be trifled with . . ."

". . . says the voice of the prince who scurried from our chamber with his tail between his legs," Hermione quipped rather forthright and surprisingly—even to herself. "Did you have a good cry on your boyfriends' shoulders . . . ?"

". . . Listen Granger . . ." Draco began; she interrupted.

". . . Oh my, you remember my name—should I be honored that a low born such as me is worthy of your lofty delusions," the young witch oozed sarcastic.

"Why you filthy little mudblood! My father will hear of this!"

"Oh my! Daddy dearest has'ta protect his wee li'l baby from the big bad muggle born witch?" Hermione's sneer was almost as good as Draco's; she got in his face and menacingly whispered, "your elitist ideals are disgusting and dim and antiquated."

_My god, what am I doing!_ Hermione felt her ire doused by well-earned panic, she suddenly realized what she was saying; Draco Malfoy spinelessly retreated, only to stumble ignobly when he backed into his burly buddies.

"Hermione stop," Harry ordered, surprisingly sternly—especially for him, he thought.

The switch in the young witch, immediate and unquestioned, went unnoticed by the others but was obvious to Harry; he thought it odd yet oddly exciting: Hermione's eyes found the floor; her hands her back.

"Yes Harry," was her simple reply.

Harry leaned forward and whispered, his warm breath tickled her ear, "Hermione, Malfoy's a git—I know that—but he's git with wealth and a powerful family; while I don't need to worry about them, you do. I like your spark but remember your place—yes, I know it's not fair or right—but magical society remains archaic and mostly patriarchal; the wealthiest families wield extraordinary power over those of lesser means and, in their minds, lower castes. You must be cautious when you speak; even some moderate and modern families find muggle born witches and wizards threatening to their place in the world."

"Yes Harry, I'll remember. Thank you for correcting me, I wasn't thinking."

"Good girl," Harry whispered and pulled away; Hermione felt her heart flutter.

"You better do a better job at keeping your pet mudblood in line from now on, Potter," Draco said with his trademark scowl returned.

"Malfoy, shut your gob you pathetic pompous ass and stick the 'my father will hear about this' tripe in your knickers: he doesn't scare or concern me. Now, listen to what I tell you—and you may pass this on to poppa peacock if you please—your daddy thinks he's untouchable and that his gold will buy license; he is wrong—very wrong. Time and history are nipping at your heels, my friend; I know what your daddy is Draco, send him my regards in your next letter: let him know we're watching."

As if dismissed by a Lord, which he was but it hadn't sunk in, the pinched faced blonde scampered away; his associates and he became anonymous within the crowd of nervous first years.

"Harry?" a quiet voice said from behind; he turned to face the owner.

"Hello, yes—Susan wasn't it?" he said remembering the girl Neville had introduced on the train, "can I help you?"

"I don't want to sound presumptuous or anything, but do you really know who you were just talking to?" she asked a little timidly.

"Most assuredly my friend," Harry replied, his manner of address bringing pink to her cheeks, "why else would I say it if I didn't know who he was—it would've been incredibly rude of me otherwise."

Um . . . mate," Neville began, knowing his societal mores having learned them at his 'very proper' grandma's knee, "not to put too fine a point on it but that was incredibly rude—no matter how you look at it."

"Not nearly as rude as it would've been if I'd mistaken his father for another's," Harry said with what could only be a roguish grin.

"Do you mind if I tell my aunt what you said to Malfoy?" Susan asked politely, "I'm sure she'd find it funny, even if she does send you a letter admonishing caution with the Malfoy scion."

"Sure, I don't mind. It would be nice to have someone to write to—I know very few adults in the Wizarding World; as it is, I have so few people to share correspondence with that I look forward to even a rebuttal."

"Um . . . Harry?" Hanna meekly asked.

"Hanna, right?" Harry replied; looking at the other girl Neville had introduced earlier.

"Yes, thank you for remembering me b . . . but do you know who Susan's aunt is?"

"Is it important?" Harry's response was surprisingly cavalier and yet sounded so innocent.

Neville, Susan and Hanna joined Hermione and her earlier silent question: _Who is this Harry Potter Person?_ As they pondered, something happened which made everyone jump as several children suddenly screamed.

"What the . . .?" Harry gasped as about twenty ghost streamed through the back wall and over their heads. As they passed, he heard them arguing without noticing the room's young occupants.

"Forgive and forget," a little fat monk implored a ghost floating beside him.

"My dear Friar, haven't we given him more than enough chances?" the other ghost—clad in Tudor flare: ruffles and tights—replied, before noticing the new students, "I say, what are you all doing here?"

A resounding silence answered his question.

"New students to be sorted, I assume," the Fat Friar concluded with a smile.

"Move along now," Professor McGonagall, instructed with a sharp voice announcing her return and the ghosts drifted away, "The Sorting is about to begin. You will form a line and follow me."

Queuing as instructed, the young students followed the older witch until they passed through a set of double doors and into the Great Hall. Awed and silent, but for Hermione's comment that the ceiling was bewitched to look like the sky outside, they were led past four long tables, set with golden dinnerware, and brought to a long table at the top of the hall. Before that table, Professor McGonagall placed a stool near the first-years and on the stool sat a patched, frayed and dirty hat of wizard's kind. Unsure what to expect from the odd artifact, they waited. The hat twitched and then near the brim a rip opened like a mouth: the hat began to sing.

Harry hardly heard the hat's song as his eyes roved ceaselessly around the hall and once it had finished, he'd heard naught but one word in five. He had heard enough, at least, to know it was about house traits and that was about it; he hoped he hadn't missed an important clue about what he was expected to do.

"So, I only gotta try it on," Harry heard Ron Weasley's loud relief.

"When I call your name you will step forward, put the hat on your head and sit on the stool," Professor McGonagall instructed before unrolling the scroll of parchment in her hand and announced, "Abbot, Hannah!"

Neville's friend with the blonde pigtails, who Harry had spoken to earlier, gave a little squeak before stumbling from the line. She put on the hat and sat; the too big cap fell over her eyes.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted and the sorting had well and truly begun. Upon her robes, the badge of her new house appeared and a black and yellow ascot appeared at her neck. Beaming, she skipped merrily and joined her new house only to be followed, almost immediately, by Susan Bones.

With each name called, the group of first years grew smaller as the hat sorted the children to their appropriate places. Briefly, Harry wondered how the hat knew where to put a student but quickly realized it wasn't really important; the only thing that was, was where it put Hermione and if he could join her.

"Granger, Hermione!" called Professor McGonagall.

Seeking support, she nervously glanced at Harry and saw him smile encouragement; strengthened, she stepped forward.

"I hope they wash the hat before I have to put it on my head," Draco Malfoy cruelly said and received a few unpleasant snickers for his wit.

At Draco's words, Harry reached out, gently took Hermione's arm and stopped her briefly. Once again, he leaned forward and whispered, "No matter where you are, I will be with you and protect you."

"Thanks Harry," she replied and felt a light tap, a bit above her right cuff, before he let her go; she stepped warily towards the stool.

"What's that on your sleeve Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall crossly challenged, "First years are not permitted adornment on their uniforms, unless there is extenuating or special circumstances, which warrant dispensation."

Hermione glanced at her sleeves and saw an ornate badge where Harry had touched her earlier, "I . . . I don't know Professor McGonagall; Harry must've put it there somehow. I don't know why."

"Let me see your sleeve, Miss Granger," the elder witch snapped her fingers with impatience and command; Hermione held out her arm.

Professor McGonagall turned the young witch's arm to see the offending alteration and gasped; it had been a long time since she had seen a Filial Protectum crest on a Hogwarts' robe, no less—never in her many years of teaching—but it was the family crest itself that robbed her of breath. There, as plain as day, the Potter Heraldry stood proudly borne upon the sleeve of a young muggle born witch. The green robed witch turned and looked at the students still waiting for their sorting; standing forth was a boy with a mop of messy black hair and brilliant emerald eyes.

Stunned, Professor McGonagall looked back at Hermione and quietly asked, "Do you know the meaning of this crest, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nervously shook her head; worried, she thought she'd be sent home on the Hogwarts' Express, tonight.

"Is there a problem, Professor McGonagall?" an ancient looking wizard sitting at the center of the head table asked.

"No Headmaster," she replied.

"Very well then, carry on Professor."

"Miss Granger, please continue," the older witch instructed and released the young witch's arm.

With even greater foreboding than earlier, Hermione approached the stool and the hat; she placed it on her head and sat.

_Hmmm . . . interesting, very interesting but I can't sort you,_ Hermione heard the Sorting Hat's voice in her head.

"Wh . . . What?" she whispered; fearing her worst nightmare had come true: she'd be sent, with disgrace, from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the mocking chorus of laughter, the least of which wouldn't be Malfoy's sneering guffaws.

_You needn't whisper Miss Granger, I hear your thoughts but that doesn't mean I can sort you_.

_Why . . . Why not? _She thought her reply, _am I not worthy or talented enough?_

_Far from it, my young friend: in you, I sense intelligence worthy of Ravenclaw's diadem but I must see deeper to sort you._

_I don't understand, Mr. Hat, _Hermione thought.

_Mr. Hat? How polite, my dear, _the hat seemed to chuckle, _but I remain at an impasse: do you know what I see in your mind?_

_N . . . No._

_Books and more books, your mind is like a library—and I don't mean it metaphorically—it's like a real, physical, place but I can't find your index cards. If you'd been older I'd think you'd been trained by a Master Occlumens; how did you acquired such an extraordinary and ordered mind at such a young age, my dear?_

_I'm not sure what you mean but I have an eidetic memory; does that help?_

_Ah . . . That explains it then but I still have the same conundrum: how do I sort you? Perhaps, if you thought about your life generally instead of mnemonically it would provide me with a key of sorts—can you try that, dear?_

_I'll try, _Hermione thought.

_Better . . . much better—yes indeed—now let's see. Hmm . . . a wonderful mind, yes absolutely wondrous: you are the embodiment of the Ravenclaw edict, 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure' and would do well in Rowena's house, except . . ._

_. . . Except? _Hermione experienced a stab of panic.

_It's quite simple, never fear dear, most Ravenclaws' seek knowledge as an end in itself. Your parents are muggle healers, are they not?_

_They're both dentists if that's what you mean._

_Indeed . . . Your love of learning and intelligence are inherited from them and like them, you seek knowledge as a means to an end and not 'an end' like Ravenclaws do: Ravenclaw is not the place for you. Hmm . . . let's see._

The Sorting Hat remained quiet for a bit.

_No . . . No, not Hufflepuff. . . wrong . . . wrong. It wouldn't really suit your temperament. Still, I feel—of all houses—they'd be the most accepting but I think you'd find it quite limiting, my dear._

_I'd like to be someplace accepting,_ Hermione silently ruminated.

_I can see how you might crave that, Miss Granger, and for all I can tell you're exceptionally loyal, loyalty for you will always be confined to a very small circle of others—such as your parents; you're far too guarded for Hufflepuff type loyalty._

_So . . . I guess that leaves Slytherin or Gryffindor._

_O' for the days of our Founders where Salazar would embrace you as a daughter: but alas, his house is now the abode of fools and secrets—but for a few—and knows not the meaning of cunning or ambition by one's own effort. I can see from your memories the secrets you bear and you know how to hold your tongue, true Slytherins are uncommonly good at that and speak only when it's beneficial to their ambitions and schemes, but that is not enough, I assure you. I also see your thirst to prove yourself to others—no, make that one other, very interesting—and the Slytherin of old would see you onto magnificence. Regrettably, that house is now but a shadow of its former glory and would reject you immediately and off handedly, unable—as it where—to see past the circumstances of your birth: which leaves us Gryffindor._

_So Gryffindor then, _Hermione silently conceded.

_Don't feel like I'm sorting you there because I have no place else to put you, my dear. You've traits in abundance for Godric's old house and your courage will see you through many trials that I foresee you'll face. Good luck Miss Granger._

"GRYFFINDOR!"

With that declaration, Hermione rose from the stool and, just before she took off the Sorting Hat, she heard its silent whisper; _next time we speak, call me Gryff_. With a smile, the young witch joined her house table to smiles and polite applause. The Sorting continued.

Now part of the audience, Hermione raptly watched the ceremony continue. She was thankful when Neville sorted to Gryffindor and near ecstatic when Draco Malfoy went to Slytherin—that had been funny; Gryff the Hat seemed unwilling to sully himself with the git's well-lubricated hair and called out the little ponce's affiliation before it alit on his head. Through Moon and Nott and Parkinson: past Patil and Patil and Perks, Sally-Anne; the person who interested her most at last had his turn.

"Potter, Harry!"

With butterflies fluttering strongly in his belly, Harry felt as if he was going to float his way to the stool. Thankfully, gravity refused to allow such a flagrante disregard for her rules and kept the boy's feet firmly on the floor as he stepped forward. As nervous as Hermione had been, Harry approached and put the hat on his head and took a seat. Like the majority of students already sorted this evening, the Sorting Hat fell over his eyes: Harry heard and yet, strangely, didn't hear a voice.

_Hmm . . . Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting . . . But where to put you._

"Not Slytherin . . ." Harry whispered.

_Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, no doubt about that._

"Not Slytherin, not Slytherin," his whisper was now fervent.

_You needn't speak, I hear your thoughts just fine when you think. You're sure about 'not Slytherin' then . . . Are you sure I can't convince you to change your mind?_

_No. No. No! _Harry thought emphatically.

_Very well then; besides I don't really want to book odds on who'd kill who, first; but my Galleons would be placed on you if I was a betting hat: young Mister Malfoy is a fool who believes he's better than everyone else because of his name—like his father._

_Do you really think I'd kill him?_

_Perhaps not . . ._

_Perhaps? You don't sound overly certain._

_You have a bit of a temper; he has a bit of a temper. Unfortunately, for young Mr. Malfoy that is, if push came to shove, you'd be the one doing the pushing and shoving; it wouldn't end well for either of you. Since the death of a family scion would be bad news for everyone and the school's reputation, I'd best not put you two together any more than the castle and the classes, you share, will. More's the pity though, you are far more Slytherin than he and Salazar's house would benefit more from you than from him. Hmm . . . What about Hufflepuff?_

_What about Hufflepuff?_

_Helga's house is loyal and, for the most, trustworthy and might help you learn how to make friends but, when I look into your mind, I see someone who is slow to trust others and, for all you're loyal; your loyalty is hard earned and a narrow band at that. I see you at odds with that house if I sort you there. Let's see now, hmm . . . maybe Ravenclaw?_

_Ravenclaw?_

_You'd get on well with Rowena's house's head, I think; considering who your allies are—which is very surprising I might add; me being surprised is quite an accomplishment, considering how old I am._

_I'd rather not speak of that and beg your discretion—others need not know of my private dealings unless I see fit to tell them._

_Never fear, never fear, Lord Potter-Scion Black._

Harry mentally flinched.

_Ah, I see, you don't want your affiliation with that Noble and Most Ancient House to become common knowledge; just like you don't want others to know what you were doing through the very long days of August just past. Never fear my young friend; I'm able to provide very little information—superficial at best—to others, Headmaster's prerogative notwithstanding._

_Thank you, I appreciate that._ Harry thought, mentally sighing in relief.

_You need not thank me; I was enchanted that way but back to the matter at hand: where to put you. I see a mind suitable for Ravenclaw but you're ambitious beyond just acquiring knowledge and learning; it would likely place you at odds with that house as well. Besides, while Professor Flitwick may well know more of your recent dealings than Professor Dumbledore does, it's certainly not enough of a reason to overlook your preference for action versus observation. Besides, I know of a witch who'd welcome you, most surely, as housemate. Better be . . ._

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat pronounced to the hall's bated breath.

Quickly, Harry removed the hat and looked at his new house's table; with an almost co-conspirators grin on her face, Hermione was looking at him, invitingly. He walked past the head table, across the Great Hall—feeling the stares and ignoring the murmurs which followed him; he reached his friend's side. Harry, generally adverse to another's touch, found that the young witch's unexpected hug that greeted him felt kind of okay—in a funny sort of way, like it had on the train. A few quiet catcalls and whistles later—mostly from two identical redheads and one young black wizard with dreadlocks—Harry and Hermione separated as if hit by an electric shock; their faces were very red. Self-conscious, Harry took the seat beside his bushy haired witch. The sorting continued.

With 'Turpin, Lisa' going to Ravenclaw, the boy known as Ron Weasley took the vacated seat on the stool and put on the hat.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Sorting Hat announced; a collective but quiet groan rose from Hermione, Neville and Harry.

"At least I don't have to share a dorm with him," hoping her comment came across as amusing.

"Lucky you," Harry replied.

He thought their discreet words had gone unnoticed until he heard, "That's our baby bro you're dissing there mate, watch it."

"I . . . I'm sorry," Harry apologized to the identical redheads; he didn't know which had spoken.

"He's a bit of a git but he is family after all," one of the redheads commented, not overly angry sounding.

"I take it—from your reaction—you've already met li'l Ronniekins," the second redhead surmised on the verbal heels of the first. "He told us he had met you—it was pretty hard to understand because he was speaking so fast: did you really do what he said you did to Malfoy?"

"Um . . . what did he say?" Harry asked cagily, "I didn't do anything special, I'm sure; he must've exaggerated."

"Harry, what you did on the train was positively amaz . . ." Hermione stopped when Harry glared at her; she recovered with, "you're right, I'm sure he was just exaggerating."

The two redheads looked skeptically at the first year witch and wizard; meanwhile, further up the table another redhead—the prefect from the Hogwarts express, no less—spoke out, chastising the other two, "Fred, George, be quiet the Sorting Ceremony isn't over yet."

"Who cares, perfect prefect Percy, the last boy looks Slytherin anyways," Fred or George—Harry wasn't sure which—said.

"That's completely beside the point," the redhead known as Percy said, pompously, as Ron joined the table.

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat announced; as the one redhead twin predicted, 'Zabini, Blaise' was indeed the newest snake.

Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll and took the Sorting Hat and stool away. She quickly returned and sat—in the primmest of manners—near the center of the head table and looked at the bearded, silver haired wizard with the up-most attention. _That's got to be Dumbledore, _Harry silently reasoned.

"Welcome!" he said once standing and opened his arms wide, "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin the feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Harry and Hermione looked at each other in confusion; once more, the same thoughts crossed their minds, _what the . . . Is he mad? What was that all about?_

The pondering on the enigma that was Professor Dumbledore was supplanted by the arrival of food—lots of food. Harry had never seen so much but, there, sitting before him were heaps of succulent roast beef, chicken, pork and lamb—steaming enticingly on overloaded platters and beckoning his full attention; his stomach growled in anticipation. He filled his plate with a little of everything and began eating the best meal of his life. Surprisingly, he found himself actually thanking the Dursleys for the one useful thing they had imparted to him, table manners: Ron Weasley wasn't so gifted; the way he ate would've earned him bread and water and month in Harry's old cupboard at 4 Privet Drive. As loathsome as it was, like seeing a horrid accident, you had to look no matter how disgusting it might be; Harry looked on for a time. Thankfully his willpower won through and his attention returned to his own plate. He ate, gingerly, and with a sidelong glance at Hermione, he noticed her plate remained empty.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" he asked quite loudly, even though—relative to the noise in the Great Hall—was quite quiet. "I know Weasley's eating habits suck but don't let that put you off your food; you need to eat too."

"It's not that, Harry," she began then halted for a second when she glimpsed the gorging redhead, "well maybe a little—ugh; I don't know what to have, it all looks so good."

"The roast beef and yorkshires are incredible, try them," Harry suggested.

"Yes Harry, I will—thank you," she replied; stunned by her overtone and the word in her mind she hadn't spoken. _Did Harry hear that the way I did—oh no, what must he think!—what should I do? I really need to write mom as soon as I can._

"Are you feeling okay, Hermione, you look a little flush," he asked with concern as he studied his friend.

"I . . . I'm fine, Harry, just a bit overwhelmed I guess; a lot happened today." She answered, her eyes refused to budge from her plate.

"You sure?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, I'm sure Harry thanks for asking," she summoned the courage for a quick glance at the green-eyed boy and offered a weak smile; then turned her attention to the roast beef and yorkshires he had mentioned. _It does look good, _she thought before, woodenly serving herself a meager portion and taking a bite. _It is good!_

As they ate, the Gryffindor house ghost visited their table—he seemed quite offended when Ron called him Nearly Headless Nick. When asked how he could be 'nearly headless' he pulled his head to the side and displayed the stub of his incompletely severed neck. Hermione declared she was finished eating after that unpleasant sight; Ron Weasley, began shoveling dessert into his mouth.

"I'm done too," Harry said at this new display of gluttony and pushed his plate away.

"Me too," chorused Neville, sharing Harry's revulsion that Ron's eating habits had engendered. _Grans would skin me alive if I ate like that, _the timid boy thought and shivered. _By Merlin, she wouldn't hesitate; wouldn't blame her either._

Harry, having eaten a comfortable amount, began visually exploring the Great Hall. His eyes fell upon the head table and a blinding stab of pain erupted in his forehead when he recognized the back of a turbaned head: it was the teacher, introduced by Hagrid while at the Leaky Cauldron. He was speaking to another who had greasy black hair, a hooked nose and pallid skin. As if sensing Harry's glance, Quirrell's companion turned his gaze to the young wizard and glared.

"What's wrong, Potter?" Percy the prefect asked, he noticed Harry's rubbing his scar.

_He still sounds like he has a stick up his butt but at least he noticed I was in pain, _Harry thought a little more charitably than formerly and answered, "A bit of a headache I guess, I'm not really used to big crowds, maybe it's getting to me; nothing to worry about but thanks for asking. By the way, who's the teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?"

Percy glanced at the head table before answering, "That's Professor Snape; he teaches potions but everyone knows he doesn't want to. We all know he wants the Defense position that Quirrell teaches; I'm told Professor Snape knows a lot about the Dark Arts: not surprising really, he heads Slytherin too."

"He's a git, too," Fred—or was that George? Harry wondered—commented without a hint of respect; whoever it was, drew the scandalized glare from a witch named Hermione.

"He's a Hogwarts' teacher; you will show him the proper respect," Percy demanded portentously in the same vein as Hermione's glower; Hermione would soon learn better.

"Doesn't make him any less of a git, though," the student with dreadlocks added.

"Jordan!" Percy's exclaimed; his tone warning.

"Stick a sock in it, Percy!" one of the twins almost shouted, "Snape doesn't treat you much better than he treats us so take your lips off his pasty ass—are you trying to become an honorary snake or something? It won't do you any good, you must know it too; we know you're not dumb but sometimes you're dim and way too stiff: besides, it's embarrassing to your brothers."

The battle of the redheads threatened to spiral out of control—Ron looked bored, however, and ignored the family spat; the treacle tarts were far more compelling—but before reaching hex exchange levels they were interrupted by Professor Dumbledore's intentionally loud, "Ahem . . ."

The Headmaster paused long enough for the three brothers to cease the verbal mêlée, before continuing, "Now we are all fed and watered I have a few start of term notices to pass on. One, first years should note that the forest on the ground is forbidden to all students. Two, our ever faithful caretaker, Mr. Filch, asked me to remind you that magic is prohibited between classes and in the corridors. Three, Quidditch trials begin in the second week of term. And finally, I must tell you that the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone not wishing for a most painful death."

"Is he serious?" Hermione quietly asked, her confidence in the faculty waning, "What kind of fool tells a bunch of children not to go someplace; if what he said is true, by the end of our first week half the student body will have died most painfully. It doesn't make a lick of sense."

Frowning, Percy Weasley heard the young witch's discreet remarks and answered, "Well the Forbidden Forest is home to many dangerous creatures, magical and non-magical alike, and magic has never been allowed in the corridors; it's a school rule but I don't understand that bit about the third floor: you'd think he'd at least tell his prefects why."

"Prefects, please gather and escort your new charges to their dorms and with that, I bid you good night." Headmaster Dumbledore announced in dismissal.

Professor Dumbledore and the teachers rose from the head table and once they had cleared it, the students rose and made their way from the Great Hall. Harry looked about and noticed that while some teachers left immediately a few remained to take a good look at the students; of these, Professor Snape was one—Harry watched him walk to the hall's doors, linger and suspiciously eye the odd student who passed. Unknowingly, Harry departed the Gryffindor table holding Hermione's hand and, of all people, Draco Malfoy was the one who noticed; he had chosen to linger with Professor Snape by the door.

"Hey Potter," he began, emboldened by the presence of his Head of House, "I hope your pet mudblood is house broken, I'd hate to clean up her mess—I think she smells enough now, I'd not want to have to deal with that too."

Professor Snape did nothing to halt or discipline his student for his reproachful remarks; he didn't care. A few other Slytherins joined them and shared a laugh at Hermione's expense; Harry was livid.

"You will apologize to Hermione, immediately, Malfoy!" Harry demanded; his voice wasn't loud but it held chilling menace: Draco didn't notice, Professor Snape did, he thought it juvenile bluster at first until he shivered unexpectedly—it was not cold in the Great Hall, by any standard.

"Why should I, she's a muggle born for Merlin's sake; even a half-blood like you has got to know what that means—so make me!" Draco said as he dug himself deeper.

"Look at her sleeve and reconsider your words, Scion Malfoy!"

Draco's eyes fell to the crest on Hermione's sleeve, it didn't mean anything to him; Professor Snape sneered and looked, he had been curious about what had ruffled the usually staid Minerva McGonagall's feathers when the Granger girl was sorted: the Potions Master somehow managed to grow paler.

"You will apologize to Miss Granger immediately, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape ordered to the disbelief and shock of the gathered Slytherins and Draco Malfoy.

"Uncle Severus," Draco whined, "she's just a filthy little mudblood, I'll not apologize to it—I'm a Malfoy and the next Lord of my family; I won't demean myself for that thing."

"It is Professor Snape while you are in this castle Mr. Malfoy and you will do what you are told, apologize now!" Draco faced the scowl that his Headof House usually reserved for students who were not Slytherin—generally Gryffindor: Fred and George Weasley, in particular. His uncharacteristic rant attracted the attention of a number of other students in the Great Hall; unfortunately, most were not members of the House of Snake and their snickers invited the Potions Master's fiercest glare.

"I'll not!" Draco was petulant. "My father will hear of this outrage!"

"You will!" Professor Snape furiously snapped at his serpents and godson.

"No!"

"Wait over there," Professor Snape instructed Draco and pointed to their house table, "now!"

_At least he followed that order, _the Potions Master thought and found himself looking at a very familiar set of green eyes and a head of messy black hair. He calmed himself with great effort.

"Lord Potter," he managed without sounding scornful; he couldn't believe he was doing this, he hated it but he didn't have a choice, "please forgive my godson and hold not the Malfoy name at fault; he is both young and foolish and knows not what he's saying."

"I'm not convinced, Professor Snape," Harry replied, lordly, "his verbiage and insults—especially towards Miss Granger, who has done nothing to warrant his unpleasant and bigoted blustering—was first experienced on the Hogwarts' Express and has dogged us since. At no time did young Mr. Malfoy seem unaware of what he was saying and seemed to actively choose words that were the most hurtful to my companion. Once spoken a word can't be unspoken; an apology from a quarter not involved is not an apology. Why should I or the lovely Miss Granger here by my side, deserve any less?"

Severus Snape was sweating; only two other wizards had ever done that to him.

"I'll speak to my charge, Lord Potter?"

"As I expect you to, goodnight Professor Snape," Harry said and, still holding her hand, exited the Great Hall with Hermione. The remaining students were confused and, surprisingly uncomfortable for their Potions Master's predicament; they didn't know what to make of this new student. Very angry, Professor Snape turned to his house's table and, with robes billowing, walked towards an unrepentant Draco Malfoy.

"Are you a fool?" he hissed.

"I will not be cowed by a mudblood or a half-blood—I am a Malfoy."

"You may be a Malfoy but you are not a Lord yet and if that little encounter is how you deal with things I fear for your House's future; you must grow up and you must do it soon. By Merlin, you're Slytherin act like one."

"You actually sound scared, uncle," his tone horridly disrespectful to his godfather, "what can Potter and his mudblood do; they're up against the Noble House of Malfoy."

"You'd be best scared too, lest you find your father on his knees before the Wizengamot, head bowed before Granger and Potter because of your stupidity: he'll not like that, I assure you."

"Father is Lord Malfoy of the Noble House of Malfoy, he would never bow; especially not to a mudblood and only a girl at that," Draco announced proudly.

Severus Snape shook his head and thought, unkindly; _can my godson be any more obtuse?_

"Listen and listen well young Draco Malfoy and heed my words: your daddy may be the head of the Noble House of Malfoy but Potter is the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter—neither you nor I are his peers, only your father ranks and you'd best heed Miss Granger and your manner towards her, too."

"She's just a mudblood," Draco remained defiant.

"Yes, she's a mudblood but she's a mudblood bearing House Potter Heraldry." Severus Snape was becoming increasingly frustrated with his godson. "Did you not look at the crest on her sleeve when Potter told you to?"

"I looked, so?"

"Are you really your father's son?"

"Of course I am."

"It was a rhetorical question, you needn't have answered it." Professor Snape, rubbed his temples, he felt the beginnings of a massive headache; it had a name too: Potter. "Do you understand what that crest signifies?"

"I've never seen it before: what is it? How important can it be?" they were innocent but exasperating question that successfully upset Serverus' stomach.

"That crest is the Filial Protectum for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter; it means that Miss Granger is a 'friend of' and 'protected by' House Potter and is essentially a 'Potter'; the only things that would bring her closer to that ancient house is now is a betrothal ring, an engagement ring or a wedding ring. Do you get it now, Draco? When you insult or do anything to Granger, you are basically doing it to the freshly minted Miss Hermione Potter! Now, off with you, I don't want to see you until tomorrow."

Firmly dismissed by his godfather and Head of House, Draco left the Great Hall with a bad taste in his mouth and vowing to 'tell his father' on the morrow: _he'll tell me what to do, I'm sure, _Draco thought.

—**}{— **

Harry Potter and a flummoxed companioning young witch called Hermione, turned their backs on the sputtering Potions Master and—essentially—promenaded from the Great Hall. Still hand in hand, they caught up with the rest of the Gryffindors; a sharp-eyed fellow first year named Lavender Brown noticed their arrival. She glanced at Harry and Hermione, noticed their linked hands and uttered a high-pitched squeak, which attracted the attention of Parvati Patil, another first year. Lavender leaned towards the girl and whispered something; Parvati jerked her head to the young couple. Hermione and Harry almost suffered sympathetic whiplash when they saw Miss Patil turn her head so quickly, they smiled bashfully The tan skinned witch studied the young couple intently and began spinning threads for future gossip—at least that's what it looked like to the hand-holding duo.

"This is the fastest way to the Gryffindor Tower from the Great Hall," Percy announced imperiously, "I expect you to remember this because I will not allow you to embarrass me or my prefects by having my firsties asking other houses for directions, so pay attention."

They followed the redhead down corridors, up stairs and through doors hidden by tapestries and mirrors and by the time they stopped before a portrait of a fat lady wearing pink Harry was thoroughly and absolutely lost.

"Um, Hermione?" he asked quietly.

"What is it?"

"Will you remember how we got here?"

"Of course I will it's easy; why, weren't you paying attention?"

Harry placed his fingers on his forehead and gave his head a little shake and whispered, "I'll just follow you for the next little bit, if that's okay with you."

"Password?" the woman in the portrait asked.

"Caput Draconis," said Percy and the picture swung open like a door.

Through the opening the new Gryffindors scurried and found themselves in a large room filled with chairs, sofas and tables but the first thing that really struck the eye was the color scheme; if it wasn't made of wood or stone it was red, gold, or—more commonly—red and gold. Tapestries, upholstery, throw pillows and area rugs frequently held motifs of lions and griffins and little else; even the balustrades on the stairs, opposite the portrait door, carried that theme as did the ornate mantle of the very large fireplace that dominated one wall.

"Welcome to the Gryffindor Common Room," the redhead said proudly. "The girls' dorm is upstairs, to the right; the boys up and to the left. You'll find your belongings by the beds in your dorms. I suggest you all head to bed, now, and get a good night's sleep; you'll be very busy tomorrow and Hogwarts is very large, she requires a fair bit stamina to navigate quickly and efficiently. Good night now."

Bone weary students began to trudge up the stairs and head to their rooms; at the landing were the stairs branched right and left, Harry and Hermione parted for the first time since the Hogwarts Express.

"G'night Mione," Harry said and yawned.

"Good night, Harry," she replied with a smile before disappearing at the top of stairs leading to her dorm.

Both had hoped to head straight to bed but were intercepted immediately upon entering their rooms. Harry faced his dorm-mates and found himself answering questions about being the-boy-who-lived and what Ron had seen on the Hogwarts' Express. It was much the same for Hermione; her dorm-mates staccato asked her questions about how long she had known Harry Potter and how she had managed to snag the-boy-who-lived so quickly after having only met him on the train this morning. Both were totally exhausted and hoarse by the time they climbed into their beds that night.

—**}{—**

"That's number four, Severus my old friend," said Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, his eyes merrily twinkling, as his Potions Master topped off his tumbler from the bottle of firewisky sitting on the Headmaster's desk. "Is something vexing you? I've not seen you down this many drinks in a very long time."

"One word 'Harry Potter'," he virtually spat out the name.

"That's two words, my friend," Albus Dumbledore said with a good natured chuckle.

Severus Snape glowered at the Headmaster and tipped back half his tumbler's contents when it touched his lips before he crossly said, "The boy is as arrogant as his father was—no, he's worse!"

"Now, now Severus I'm sure you're just exaggerating," Dumbledore soothed, "I spoke with Hagrid after his trip to Diagon Ally with the boy; he said young Harry was quite timid and unassuming and very polite."

"That oaf! Potter played your grounds keeper for the fool that he is—you should've sent someone else. I'm telling you Albus, Potter is trouble and he's already flaunting himself."

"Come now, he can't be that bad—by Merlin, he's spent most of his life with his muggle relatives, what does he know of our world or his heritage for that matter?" the Headmaster said trying mollify his aggrieved friend.

"Doesn't know about our world or his heritage!" Professor Snape roared. "Are you intentionally being blind or have you gone senile?"

"My, my, I'm hurt that you'd think that Severus," Dumbledore feigned insult but his eyes kept their twinkle. "Give me an example of young Harry's precociousness; who would have taught him—surely not his magic hating muggle relations."

"You want an example, I'll give you an example and you might want to start rethinking your plans for the 'Greater Good' because the timid, unassuming and polite boy you claim he his has already begun—like a dog—to mark territory in your castle, Albus. I suggest you open your eyes."

"Whatever do you mean, Severus?" The Headmaster countered.

"Remember when the Granger girl was sorted, by Merlin man, you even asked Minerva if something was wrong—didn't you ask your Deputy Headmistress what happened? Did you even think to ask?"

"Dear me, I meant to; I must've gotten caught up in the excitement of the feast and forgotten to—so, what does Miss Granger's sorting have to do with young Harry?"

"Miss Granger—a muggle born witch in her first year at Hogwarts—is sporting the Potter Filial Protectum on her right sleeve; tell me Albus, how does that sit in regards to your 'Greater Good' and grand schemes, I'd like to know?"

"You . . . you must be mistaken, Severus; only a Lord from a noble family can give 'friend of' or 'protected by' status to another—young Harry is far too young," Professor Dumbledore replied; a worried tone working into his words, "mind you, he is the last Potter—but still."

"Well obviously Potter knows more than he should; even his egotistical father never played the Potter name card while he was at Hogwarts," said Severus Snape with obvious hatred.

"What do you mean by played 'the Potter name card', Severus, did something else happen?"

"Your unassuming and timid boy called out Draco Malfoy in the Great Hall and very publicly demanded that he apologize to Granger—I assume you know how that would play out don't you?"

"Oh my . . ."

"It would be hard enough to get my godson to apologize to a pureblood peer, never mind a mudblood . . ."

". . . Severus, I expect better of you—Miss Granger is a Hogwarts' student; she should not been demeaned by that vulgar word, especially passing the lips of a teacher."

"Fine . . . fine, I'll be more guarded in the future but that is not important; what is important is Draco's outright refusal and continuing debasement of Granger in front of her Lord—though I don't think she knows that Potter is now her Lord, at least not yet—and in public forum no less. I had to apologize, on my godson's behalf, for the honor of the Malfoy family and Slytherin House."

"Wonderful, you apologized—I'm sure young Harry and Miss Granger will forgive and forget," the Headmaster's twinkle was back and he sounded annoyingly chipper again.

"Headmaster, Potter in a most infuriatingly polite manner did not accept the apology—he basically told me it was worthless because I was not involved in the incidents relating to this slight."

"Oh dear . . . did you speak to the Malfoy Scion about his manners?"

"Of course I did; I am his godfather and Head of House. I even told him that if he continued in this fashion towards Potter and Granger that his father could be called to task and forced to publicly apologize—on his knees—to Granger and Potter before the Wizengamot; he didn't listen."

"Oh my . . . Lord Malfoy will be most displeased," Dumbledore pointlessly observed.

"Indeed," Severus Snape simply replied.

"Gryff, can you cast some light on today's sorting?" Dumbledore asked the Sorting Hat sitting quietly on its self.

"I take it you are really asking about our two new Slythindors, Albus?" The hat asked.

"Slythindors? What do you mean?" The Headmaster asked in confusion.

Gryff the hat replied, "All I can say, Headmaster, is that it is a very sorry state of affairs when the two most Slytherin of all are not in Slytherin at all."

—**}{—**

Many, many miles South of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in a roughly hewn cavern beneath London, the true seat of goblin kind, found three keepers of Wizarding Wealth meeting a fourth.

"Report Chronicler Griphook," ordered a rough and battle-scarred goblin from the head of a gold table.

"Lord Potter will now be at Hogwarts and his mother's machinations continue to pop up but otherwise things have not really changed, Overlord Ragnok," Griphook replied.

"What has the late Lady Lillian arranged for us this time," Ragnok replied in disdained amusement from his seat at the head, "how I wish she were alive and of the people—as queen she would be exemplar and bear strong children; I'd even welcome a daughter by her."

"It looks like a set of memory marbles and a letter, M'Lord, we have sent them to Lord Potter."

"Very good, anything else?"

"Lord Potter has named one Miss Hermione Granger—a muggle born witch of no regard before now—as a Potter Filial Protectum, we will be dispatching warders to Miss Granger's home tomorrow—I think Cursebreaker Weasley should attend as well, I'm sure as muggles Miss Granger's parents would find dealing with a human much easier," Vaultlord Goldenfang reported.

"What ward schemes have you considered, Vaultlord Goldenfang, since Lord Potter is by default Scion-Black at this time; his actions make the Grangers also Black Filial Protectum—ironic to say the least," chuckled Vaultlord Diamondwill.

"For now we think anti-apparition, anti-magic-detection—I'm sure Maiden Granger would like to practice magic when not at school—and Darkmark detection and detention," Griphook replied.

"That should be sufficient for now; we'll reassess as needed," Overlord Ragnok agreed. "What of Lord Black?"

"He remains in Azkaban and we have yet to find collaborating or compelling evidence to warrant his incarceration," Vaultlord Diamondwill reported, "we've queried the Ministry but they are being obfuscating as a dwarf."

"Very well then, we shall meet in thirty days unless something happens," Overlord Ragnok said in dismissal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Heirs** **of** **the** **Founders**

**Author's miscellany meanderings:**

Once more, I thank you all for your time and reviews (positive and negative) and hope you continue enjoying my story.

This chapter fought me, tooth and nail, until I realized I was actually writting a bridge. Once I realized this, things came much easier; a bridge is a good place for some back-story, character development/exploration and foreshadowing. Also, many readers have noted the D/s components in Heirs of the Founders; be forewarned it's not going away but I hope to maintain the current 'T' rating for as long as possible. As this is a Harry Potter fanfiction, I doubt I have the same wiggle room that my other major story has in its genre but I will try to give you advanced notice if it does drift past the 'T' line (I doubt it will be anytime soon). Still that may not be possible, regardless of how clever I hope to be, and may be facing a 'M' future after-all.

Best regards,

Animekitty2

**Obligatory blah blah blah:**

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

**Chapter Five**

Harry's first full day of school began as the first tendrils of dawn crept through the heavy red velvet bed-curtains that afforded some privacy from his fellow first years. As thick as they might be, the curtains were still inadequate sound barriers; leaving him to suffer through the salvos of snore artillery volleyed by his dorm-mates over the course of the night: he had managed some sleep but could've used more. Harry weighed his options between trying for a bit more shut-eye or starting his day; a moot deliberation, the ceasefire ended in another barrage and made the decision for him, he would get up—he had to use the loo anyways. Drawing back the drapery and tossing off sheets, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. The floor was thankfully only cool under his bare feet but it made him worry about winter; he was, after all, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands and winter would be far colder and harsher than what he was used to. _Come to think of it, _Harry mused, _my Hogwarts' letter never mentioned thermal undies; a bit of an oversight I'd say. _

Padding across the dorm, Harry made his way to the washroom. He attended to his morning ablutions and then returned to his bed. A quick glance confirmed that he was still the only one awake. _Well, may as well get dressed—let's see, today I think I'll wear the black robe, the black slacks, the red and gold tie, and the pointy hat, _Harry amusedly thought. _I wonder if the school has a gym or something—it isn't mentioned in 'Hogwarts: A History' from what I remember—if not, I'll have to be content with jogging and simple isometrics; I'll ask Percy Weasley later. _Harry donned his uniform, slipped on his loafers and left the room; he was walking down the steps when Hermione appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the girls' dorms. They immediately saw each other and exchanged shy smiles.

"G'morning Hermione, how'd ya sleep?" Harry asked from the landing; he waited for the witch.

"Good morning, Harry," she replied. "I slept okay, I guess—first night; new bed and all, how 'bout you?"

"Okay too, I guess, but it would've been better if my dorm wasn't a saw-mill."

"Bunk mates snore, huh?"

"Mostly Weasley but Neville would give him a run for his money every now and then," Harry replied as the witch joined him on the landing; together they walked down to the Common Room. "I wouldn't have taken you for a morning person, Mione."

"Just habit really, Harry," said the witch as the two children took a seat on an overstuffed couch, "my parents are big on personal fitness—not obsessively so, mind you—and for as long as I remember I've joined them for some part of their morning routine. What about you, do you always rise with the birds?"

"Yeah, pretty much, Aunt Petunia expected me to have breakfast ready by the time Uncle Vernon and l'il Dinky Duddydums waddled to the table," Harry said, he wasn't hiding his disdain. "I guess over the years I've developed a similar habit; it's kinda funny that you mentioned exercise, though—I was wondering if Hogwarts had a gym or something?"

Hermione eyes looked up and right, she replied, "I don't think so, 'Hogwarts: A History' doesn't mention it. Come to think of it, I haven't read anything about witch or wizard fitness. I guess they don't think it's important—what with spells and potions and what not, they must think it's unnecessary. Well that's their own look out I guess—I like how I feel after a good workout; how 'bout you Harry, how long have you been exercising?"

"The beginning of August, while being tutored at Gringotts," Harry began in explanation, "My Goblin tutors took offense over my scrawniness. They set out a rather intensive potion and fitness routine for me because of their old saying, 'a weak body dulls the blade'n'brain' and—after much cursing, struggling and lots of sweat—I began to put on some good weight and muscle; I got taller too. I've learned two things from those workouts: Firstly, like you, I like how I feel after exercise and, secondly, never let a goblin plan your fitness routine."

Hermione giggled a little.

"I'm serious Mione—goblins have no sense of mercy, hate weaknesses of any kind and never accept anything less than one-hundred percent in effort. Heck, my trainer would jog behind me and cast stinging jinxes—goblin stinging jinxes, no less; goblins have higher pain thresholds than humans: I'll leave that to your imagination—if he thought I wasn't running fast enough; mind you, the end result was worth it. They are as demanding with academics and never accept anything less than ninety percent on tests. If I got 89.99% on a quiz, I would rewrite—not the same test; that'd be too easy—a different one."

"Wow," Hermione said with obvious awe, "that was demanding and you did it daily throughout August?"

"Yeah, every weekday for twenty weeks in August," replied Harry.

"Twenty days, you mean," Hermione's sharp ears seized upon his ambiguous time keeping.

Harry froze and suddenly looked very nervous, he recovered quickly, scanned the empty—but for he and Hermione—Common Room and quietly said, "Um . . . I shouldn't have said that; I guess it's pretty safe to assume, Hermione, you won't conveniently forget that or not ask me any questions, right"

With a touch of confusion, Hermione responded, "I have an eidetic memory, Harry; I don't forget anything—which isn't that great of a thing, let me tell you; I remember the bad and good both equally and clearly—but why does a simple tongue slip tie you into knots?"

"Please . . . please, don't repeat what I'm about to tell, Mione; I wish I could give you instant Occlumency."

"Occlumency? Gryff said something about a master Occlumens training me but for my age," Hermione said reflectively, as her mind connected dots.

"Who's Gryff?" Harry asked.

"The Sorting Hat, he told me to call him Gryff the next time we spoke," she replied. "I wasn't really sure what he was talking about then and I haven't thought about it since—it seemed kinda unimportant at the time but for the difficulties he had deciding what house to put me in."

"Why did Occlumency come up during your sorting, Hermione?" he said, sounding very puzzled, "and what difficulties did Gryff the Hat have with you?"

Hermione replied, "At first, he said he couldn't see into my mind . . . no, that isn't quite right, he said my mind was extraordinary and ordered and that he saw a library when he looked—I guess all my books were closed or something—but he couldn't find my 'index cards' so he couldn't see 'me' I guess you might say."

"I think I understand, Mione, I'm glad too," Harry said. "Do you know what Legilimency is?"

She shook her head.

"It's magic that allows a person to look into another's mind, to varying degrees; Occlumency is its counter—it shields your mind from a Legilimens attempt to take a peek," he explained. "Anyway, the goblins suspect Professor Dumbledore is an accomplished and practicing Legilimens and not above taking a furtive look into the minds of others—students included."

"I can't believe that—I mean who'd allow it; I'm sure he'd get in lots of trouble for it too," Hermione seemed to take offence at the very thought that the Headmaster might do that, "It's only a suspicion though, right?"

"Mione, while at Gringotts, one of the many things I learned about goblins was that Goblin suspicion is but a hairbreadth from the truth," Harry told the doubting witch, "I think you should remain guarded around the Headmaster—for your sake as well as mine—the less he knows about me and my private dealings the better."

"Harry, you're talking about Albus Dumbledore, here! He defeated Grindelwald and is said to be the only wizard You-know-who feared. Aside from being Hogwarts' Headmaster he's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards," Hermione rattled off as if reading the Headmaster's biography, "why would he trouble himself over the dealings of an underage wizard—or even remotely care for that matter?"

"Because, Hermione," Harry began sounding very resigned, "as much as I'd like to be a normal run-of-the-mill underage wizard, I'm not—I represent an unknown element to the Wizengamot and its many factions; each trying to figure how they might manipulate, recruit or align me. I know what the Goblins want from me, others I do not; until I know that Professor Dumbledore and I have the same goals, I intend to keep my head down and hope he ignores me."

"I think it's too late for that, Harry—he noticed Professor McGonagall's behavior during my sorting and I can't believe that that little scene between you, that slimy Malfoy and Professor Snape—the little bigot's goddaddy, no less—hasn't made it to the Headmaster's ears already. It's gonna be everywhere before breakfast ends, as it is, Harry; we share a castle with hundreds of teens and preteens—discretion will be anything but a well-developed art for most, I assure you."

"I guess in hindsight that was dumb of me—kinda funny though, the Sorting Hat thought I'd do well in Slytherin: ha, ha I showed him—I guess I've some damage control to do," Harry replied—trying to tint his self-disappointment with a modicum of humor.

"Gryff said you'd do well in Slytherin?" Hermione quipped; she almost chuckled. "You were quintessentially Gryffindor last night; still, thank you for standing up for me, Harry, it made me very happy—I hope you don't get in trouble for it though."

"A little late for me to worry about that, now," Harry replied in tacit acquiescence, "I'm just gonna hav'ta weather whatever storm that blows in. My foolishness aside, weren't we talking about exercise, Hermione?"

"We were, I said I don't think Hogwarts has a gym—'Hogwarts: A History' doesn't mention one either—I still want to get some exercise, though; any ideas Harry?"

"For now, I guess we can run a bit and do some simple isometrics; maybe a little resistance training, we only need each other's body to work up a sweat," Harry replied innocently, which wasn't how Hermione heard it; the young witch glowed red. Harry noticed and asked, "Hermione, you sure you don't have a cold or something? You're all flushed again; maybe you've got a fever."

"I . . . I'm fine Harry, honestly; I just kinda miss-imagined what you said . . ." her hands flew to her mouth. _Oh my god, oh my god, what am I saying? I just went and made him think about how I heard 'we only need each other's body to work up a sweat', wh . . . what's Harry gonna think?_ Her panic thoughts raced.

"Miss-imagined, I don't get it; what did I say that got your knickers in a . . ." Harry slammed his lips closed. _Just frigging great Harry, _he thought with similar panic, _I blurt out 'your knickers' to a pretty witch; there's no way she won't notice that but what's the bee in her bonnet, what did I say?_ Harry thoughtfully reviewed what he had said until it dawned; Harry went as red as Hermione.

"Oh, this is getting stupid," Hermione said in forced recovery, "let's just drop it and figure out an exercise routine; my daddy always told me to be aware and make use of my surroundings; it's something he learned when he was in Hereford—he said they stressed it like an edict, there."

"Where's Hereford?"

"Near Gloucester I think—I've never been there," Hermione answered, "It's where my mom and dad met. Dad was a dentist at RAF Hereford's, until he retired from service; mom was his assistant before she went back to university and finished her Doctorate of Dental Surgery. They got married a bit after she graduated and went into practice together."

"Ex-military, I guess that explains why your parents are big on physical fitness."

"Yeah, daddy told me that their C. O. expected even his noncombatant support staff, like mom and dad; executive and other ranks alike, to remain near the same physical level as Regimental Regulars and Specialists." Hermione explained, "My dad once told me that his Regiment's motto was 'Who Dares Wins'; try associating that with dentistry and oral hygiene, he said to me once—it didn't really fit—but the Regimental Brigadier was a stickler for things like that, he told me."

"I'd say it doesn't fit," Harry replied, fighting against laughter, "I'd find it unnerving hearing a dentist exclaim 'Who Dares Wins' before pulling a tooth."

"That wasn't funny—well, maybe it was—but daddy was serious and mom confirmed it," she said defensively. "Still, talking about my parent's past isn't getting us anywhere—we'll just have to figure things out as we go."

"I guess—I was gonna ask Percy Weasley about a gym or something, on the off-handed chance it was missed in the current edition of 'Hogwarts: A History' but I doubt it," he said, "but I haven't read anything 'bout fitness stuff either. So, Mione, you wanna hang around here for a li'l longer; I'm feeling a little antsy myself and was think'n of exploring the castle a bit before breakfast: by the way, do you know when breakfast is?"

Hermione thought for a moment and replied, "6:30 to 8:30 during the week and it's kinda a brunch thing weekends and holidays from 6:30 till 1:30."

Harry glanced at his watch before saying, "It's almost 6:30 now, Mione, what say we go get someth'n to eat and explore a bit afterwards?"

"Yeah, okay Harry, but I don't think we can wander around Hogwarts today; they give us our class schedules at breakfast this morning," she countered. "We kinda need to be in the Great Hall for that."

"You're right, I guess maybe tomorrow or later this week would be better; besides, we have a whole weekend coming up too," he said. "You can get us back to the Great Hall, right? I'd hate to go hungry because I got lost."

Hermione rolled her eyes and replied, "Of course, weren't you paying attention last night?

"You're the one with the eidis . . . eltic . . . perfect memory thing, not me; besides I was looking at other things last night."

"It's eidetic, Harry, and perfect memory is a bit of a misnomer; it's really more about really, really good recall," Hermione corrected him with a touch of know-it-all.

"What's the difference," Harry replied, he didn't really mean it as a question.

"Well you see," Hermione began, "unless there is physiological differentiation from the paradigm whether through injury, disease or genetic malformation a person's brain retains every experience it every experienced . . ."

"Hermione," Harry interrupted.

". . . as has been shown by experiments in which extremely low-voltage electrodes, when applied to the exposed surface of the cerebral cortex in test subjects, has been shown to stimulate memories . . ."

"Hermione!" he firmly interrupted. _Does she breath? _Harry thought with amused affection.

". . . it is generally assumed by many scholars, in the field of Neurological Science, that it's not our memory but our recall process that causes us to assume, faultily I might add, that we've . . ."

"MIONE!"

With a startled flinch caused by Harry's loud address, the young witch realized she was in full bushy-haired Bookworm-no-it-all lecture mode. She immediately stopped talking, looked at the floor and said with embarrassment and a couple of tears, "I . . . I'm sorry Harry . . ."

"It's fine Mione, really it is; you just need to pay attention and not carried away with what and how you say something," Harry said gently supportive. "I take it this is one of those things you want to change; I can see how it might push people away."

Hermione nodded weakly but never really took her eyes from the floor.

"If you want, I can help you," he said soothingly, Hermione's distress was profound.

"You will! Thank you Harry," the now happy witch, suddenly hugged him. "I'll do my best too—I won't disappoint you, I promise, I'll be your good little witch." _I didn't . . . I didn't! _She reproached herself. _ I did not just say, 'I'll be your good little witch' did I? What will he think—maybe he didn't notice._

"I hope so, otherwise I may have to spank you," Harry had meant it jokingly but it didn't sound like that to his ears. _O . . . my . . . God . . . I . . . did . . . not . . . just . . . say . . . that! _The little voice in his head screamed in panic and shame. _Maybe she didn't hear it . . . maybe she'll think she heard me wrong. _He felt her squirm a little—he was suddenly very aware that Hermione was a girl and that she was hugging him—he was very thankful when she let go; in a disappointed sort of way. He hazarded a glance at her but their eyes refused to meet.

An awkward eternity passed between them—even if it was for only a couple of seconds—before she stood and said anxiously, "Let's head to the Great Hall and get breakfast, Harry."

"Yeah . . . Yeah, let's go," he agreed and stood as well.

Crossing the floor, Harry and Hermione exited the Common Room through the portrait and into the torch lit corridor. Uncertain, Harry glanced up and down the hall and concluded that his earlier assumption had been correct; he had no idea which way to go. Thankfully, Hermione's sense of direction wasn't so encumbered and, upon stepping from the Gryffindor Common Room, began walking with confidence; Harry followed and soon the smell of breakfast would've lead him to the Great Hall had the bushy-haired witch not been there to guide him. With each step, the scent of food wafted invitingly and after descending another flight of stairs Harry and Hermione reached the Entrance Hall. With their stomachs growling and saliva glands in overdrive, the young witch and wizard stepped into the Great Hall and made their ways to their house table, already laden with heaping salvers of every type of breakfast food imaginable. Two children, with eyes as large as the saucers that set the table, were the first Gryffindors to face the morning feast and fall under the calculating gaze of a staff member; the polar opposite of Hagrid.

"Why don't I see more fat witches and wizards?" Harry asked, more to himself than to the person beside him, "because if I keep eating like this I'm going to rival Dudley's girth by spring."

"I was thinking the same thing, Harry," Hermione said.

"That you're going to rival Dudley?" he said and roguishly grinned.

"No silly," she countered and playfully slapped his shoulder, "about overweight magicals; I don't recall seeing any more than a little chubby, like Neville, and I'd be willing to bet that's baby-fat and will be gone in two or three years tops."

"The reason you don't see many overweight magicals, Miss Granger, is due to our magical cores being a fairly significant drain on our caloric intake," Hermione and Harry jumped when a slightly squeaky voice suddenly addressed them from behind.

The two startled children turned towards the voice and found the diminutive wizard they had seen when they had entered the Great Hall for breakfast. How he got from the head table, so quickly and quietly, to stand behind them unnerved Harry, greatly; he chided himself for failing to heed his surroundings properly.

"Lord Potter, I am both surprised and disappointed with you," the small wizard chastised, "to not be aware of my presence, before I addressed you, shames you and your teachers; had I been an enemy, I'd have greeted you this morning with a well-deserved knife in your back."

"You speak as one of The People but you wear the robes of a Hogwarts professor; I've yet to receive the gift of your name may I be so bold as to ask?" Harry said with more respect than Hermione had yet to hear.

"I am Filius Flitwick, Charms' professor at Hogwarts and head of Ravenclaw House," He replied formally. "I am not of The People but I call The Nation home. I am the descendant of an unlikely love between a goblin and a human and I have many friends and allies who are of The People; they trust me—much like they trust you, Lord Potter—to know and keep many of The Nation's secrets. Again, I challenge you Lord Potter: how is it that I managed to surprise you after being told that you were the pride of your teachers?"

"Blame not nor bring shame upon my teachers; I know better and ignored my surroundings: I thought Hogwarts was safe," Harry replied, each word measured and weighed before speaking.

"Lord Potter," Professor Flitwick continued, "it is a sad but undeniable truth that you are the enemy of he who resides in your scar and his minions that still walk free; no place will ever be truly safe until he and his have crossed the Veil."

"Harry, what does Professor Flitwick mean when he says 'he who resides in your scar'," Hermione's inquisitive mind seizing on the professor's words."

"Something that should not have been spoken in this place and part of things I will tell you when we're somewhere with no unwelcome ears," Harry replied evasively before returning his attention to Professor Flitwick. "I'm surprised by you indiscretion and am thankful that few have yet arrived for breakfast and while I feel that you and I may implicitly trust Miss Granger with my secrets it is mine to decide upon the time and place of discloser."

Professor Flitwick bowed very low and said, "My apologies Lord Potter you are most correct, please forgive me."

"Please do not address me as Lord, especially while I'm at Hogwarts; please address me as you would a student, Professor Flitwick," Harry requested.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter," the petite professor replied, "but I stand by my earlier words and caution you."

"No, professor, apologizes are unnecessary and you were correct in your approach. I appreciate your concern and am thankful for your reminder, I will be more diligent in future."

"Very well then, Mr. Potter; Miss Granger, I will let you enjoy your breakfast without further interruption," Professor Flitwick said with a bow before saying, "one last thing Mr. Potter, The Nation and The People have requested that I continue your tutorage while you are at Hogwarts, we should meet soon and discuss how we wish to proceed."

"Thank you professor, I look forward to it," Harry said before adding, "Sir, do you know a place where my friend and I may exercise?"

"I maintain a dueling hall that is well equipped; I will show it to Miss Granger and you when the opportunity presents itself—this weekend would be the earliest I would think," he answered.

"Thank you professor," said Harry.

"Yes professor, thank you," Hermione echoed as Professor Flitwick turned to go back to the head table.

With the professor's diminutive back receding from the table, Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "Harry, what was that all about?"

"We really need to find somewhere private but suffice to say it's more not to talk about at this time or place, please let it go for now."

"But Harry . . ."

"Not now Mione, I'm serious about this; all I'll say for now is that my arrival at Hogwarts has set many things in motion; planned and unplanned, known and unknown. Like a storm, it may sweep a decayed culture from the face of modern Britain; what grows in its place is anyone's guess and chaos is not the best fertilizer for a just society," Harry replied with both firmness and certainty.

Hermione opened her mouth but once more found that Harry Potter had stripped her of words, _I don't understand it, _she thought furiously, _this is—what—the third time Harry has said something I can't dispute or even comment on, rationally or logically. Let's see, he said he spent every weekday through August at Gringotts, twenty days he said—no, he said twenty weeks, I corrected him; I said twenty days—what if? What if, what? Time is the abstract child of the three dimensions and distance; it can't be orphaned from its parents: am I about to postulate that magic can do the impossible—AAUGH, what am I saying, I'm a frigging witch! _Hermione did the mental equivalent of a face-palm. _I seriously think I need to rethink what I think is impossible, I think. _She was not happy with that bit of convoluted mental gymnastics and decided that maybe she'd just think about breakfast for the time being. With her thoughts on things more mundane—eggs, bacon and toast for the time being—she found herself enjoying her morning repast and the company she was keeping.

Harry was also enjoying the company but—as the old adage 'all good things must come to pass' says—their time of pseudo-privacy ended as more and more Gryffindors joined the table for their morning meal. Harry glanced about the Great Hall surreptitiously as he assessed his place and the people he'd be spending the better part of the next ten months with. He felt eyes on him and looked around, _of course he thought, _as he found the eyes of Draco Malfoy trying to bore into him from all the way from the Slytherin table; Harry smiled in acknowledgement. He mentally snickered when the boy hurriedly glanced at the head table: another set of eyes were on him but these were more than happy to glare at him. _Yep, should have known, professor Snape, _Harry thought as he felt an odd tingle behind his forehead, automatically Harry's Occlumency Shields snapped in place leaving only one obvious thought viewable: _naughty, naughty Professor Snape, _he forced all his concentration to the forefront of his mind, _legilimency is generally frowned upon in polite society. _His thoughts appeared to reach the professor as the hook-nosed man scowled at the half-day old Gryffindor; with his message apparently delivered, Harry mentally shoved the man from his mind and felt rewarded when Professor Snape's fingers went to his temples in obvious pain.

"Harry," Hermione's quiet voice startled him, "I was wondering where Professor Flitwick came from."

Harry's newly developed sense of humor was first in the race to get words to his tongue, he answered, "Well you see, Mione, when a mommy wizard loves a daddy wizard they plant a cabbage patch and . . ."

". . . Prat," Hermione replied with another playful to slap to her friend's shoulder, "you know what I mean—how could . . ."

". . . let's go ask," Harry said facetiously; Hermione glared at him, "just kidding, but I'm curious too because—even though I preferred math and physics over biology and chemistry—everything I've read suggests he shouldn't exist but there he is eating kippers and sausages at the head table. Obviously, somebody is wrong and I'm pretty certain if I tell him he shouldn't exist he won't suddenly pop into nonexistence."

Hermione giggled softly.

"What's so funny?"

"What you just said made me think about something I read in daddy's favorite book," she replied.

"Okay, I'm curious, go on," Harry prompted.

"It's about the nonexistence of God," Hermione sounded a little hesitant.

"I'm not religious, you won't offend me."

Hermione looked up and to the right for a second and began, "My daddy's favorite book is from 1979 and called The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the part I'm thinking about is fifty or so pages in and begins with a thing called a Babel fish."

"A what?"

"A Babel fish—you stick it in your ear and it translates for you, in the book that is."

"Obviously but what does it have to do with God or the lack thereof, Hermione?"

"The best way to explain is to use that book's explanation, I think," Hermione replied before continuing. "The part about God goes like this: 'Now it's such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindbogglingly useful could've evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God.'

She took a breath and continued, "'the argument goes something like this: 'I refuse to prove I exist,' says God, 'for proof denies faith and without faith I'm nothing.'

"'But,' says Man, 'the Babel fish is a dead giveaway isn't it? It couldn't have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED.'

Hermione found Harry's smile enchanting and he was listening inventively for her to continue, "'Oh dear,' says God, 'I hadn't thought of that,' and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.'

Having someone raptly listening, other than her parents, bordered on intoxicating for the usually ostracized girl and drove her on, "'Oh, that was easy,' says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.' Oh, I'm sorry Harry; I kinda got carried away there."

His grin alleviated her worries before he said, "It's okay Mione, really; I love listening to your voice."

_Did he just say he loves listening to my voice? _A very suddenly flustered witch thought as she felt her face warm.

_AAUGH, what's going on with me! _Harry's thought with racing panic. _Why do I keep saying things that can be so easily misunderstood by Hermione? Maybe you want her to misunderstand or perhaps that's understand. _A thought from somewhere deep in his mind intruded; it brought to mind memories of an old cartoon in which the character had a comedic angle and demon on each shoulder offering conflicting advice.

"I'm going to have to read it someday," Harry said; thankfully, he had recovered quickly but the way that Hermione looked at him—pink faced and all—left him feeling squirmy inside.

"I . . . I could ask my parents to send me my copy of the books," she said with an odd hitch in her voice.

"Blimy mate, what's with the weird vibe you two?" The less than welcome voice of Ron Weasley asked as the lanky redhead took a seat beside Harry and eyed the mounds of food with more interest than any answer he might receive from Harry or Hermione.

"G'morning Harry; Hermione," Neville greeted as he arrived on Ron's heels, "Is it okay to sit with you?"

"Of course, Neville, you don't need to ask," Hermione answered warmly, her feelings vacillating between relief and disappointment with the arrival of her year-mates.

"Good morn, Neville; Ron," Harry greeted, his feelings echoing those of the bushy-haired witch beside him. "How'd ya sleep?"

"Lying down," Ron replied, thinking he was funny; he already had a mouthful of food.

Neville ignored the comment and replied, "It took a bit to get to sleep—different bed and all, if you know what I mean—but okay I guess. Might've missed breakfast if it hadn't been for the bird; I guess I should thank you for that Harry."

"Oh my god, I left Hedwig in her cage all night—no wonder she woke you, she's going to be so pissed at me," Harry said; completely appalled with his negligence toward his feathered friend. "I'm sorry, I gotta dash to our dorm."

"Relax mate," Ron said, actually between mouthfuls, "ya musta let her out last night and was too tired ta remember, she was perched on the window sill when I woke—looking proud about it or someth'n like that, strange bird that mate; I've never seen Errol look proud 'bout anything, dopey maybe but never proud. No, it was that other ruddy bird Longbottom's talking 'bout."

"What other bird?" Harry asked.

"Biggest, meanest bleed'n thing I ever saw," said Ron before shoveling some scrambled egg into his mouth; unfortunately, he had more to say. "Frigging thing was a feathered nightmare—I tell you—I thought the ruddy thing was gonna peck my eyes out when I tried to take that package from it; it seemed okay with Longbottom after your bird hooted at the bloody thing."

"His name is Neville," Hermione said emphatically, "calling him by just his last name is pretty rude unless you're in Japan."

"Ne'er heard of no Japan," Ron defended himself through a mouthful of toast, "it's not nowhere near the Burrow, is it someplace near your place Hermione?"

"Japan is another country, Ron . . . oh, just forget I said anything," Hermione said; she realized it was pointless—she actually surprised herself when she didn't pursue the redhead's lack of geographical knowledge.

"About the bird?" Harry asked, pulling the conversation back to neutral.

"Like I said; biggest meanest bird I ever seen . . ." Ron began.

". . . It was a Gringotts' preferred client eagle; my gran gets them sometimes," Neville said in interruption, "they can be pretty picky when it comes to deliveries—I doubt I would've been able to receive the package if your owl had told the eagle it was okay."

"You're barmy, Neville, if you think that monster listened to Harry's owl; it was just a hoot . . ."

". . . I know what I saw and heard—that's a pretty special owl you got there, Harry—and believe me, Gringotts' birds don't release items to anyone who isn't given permission to receive them," Neville said with surety.

"I take it that whatever it was, was for me," Harry concluded.

"Yep," Ron said as he was refilling his plate, "some type of box, it looks like, Neville said it was for you and then he put it in his trunk."

Harry turned his eyes to the Longbottom boy, he saw him quietly say something to Hermione who, in turn, leaned towards Harry's ear.

"Harry, don't be angry," Hermione said quietly, "Neville just told me that the package addressing was to 'The Most August, Lord Harry James of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter; he thought it best to not leave it lying around for others to see."

Hermione's words soothed Harry's temper, he looked and Neville and said quietly, "I'm sorry, Neville, my thoughts raced ahead of my common sense. I appreciate your actions and concerns in respect to my privacy."

"As the Scion of a Noble and Most Ancient House, I understand the necessity of discretion," Neville replied, quietly as well.

"What's with the sudden whispering, you three," Ron said before another link of sausage found its way into the redhead's maw.

"Were we whispering?" Harry asked innocently before adding, "We were commenting about your eating habits or lack of as the case might be—I'm pretty certain Hogwarts isn't going to starve you, Ron, and I'd appreciate it if you'd chew your food with your mouth closed."

"What would a muggle raised know," Harry, Hermione and Neville were stunned by the redhead's words.

"Li'l bro," either Fred or George Weasley began, "manners are not the exclusive property of magical families; I'd suggest you listen to your dorm-mate else mom hears of the way you're eating, it's disgusting not to mention EMBARRASSING."

Somehow, Ron Weasley blanched and indignantly scowled, concurrently, at the twins before glowering at Harry. Neville, Harry and Hermione ignored the youngest Weasley, who at least took the less than subtle hint and began to meter himself.

As the other Gryffindors focused on breakfast, Hermione nibbled at a piece of toast as Harry sipped from the goblet set before him, grimaced and forced himself to swallow.

"Hermione," he quietly began as he suspiciously eyed the orange, semi-viscous liquid in his cup, "what is this stuff?"

"I don't know, it's disgusting though; I'd prefer water," the hazel-eyed witch softly replied before turning to Neville, "Neville what are we drinking?"

"Pumpkin juice, what did you think it was?" Neville replied with a touch of confusion.

"It's not like anything I've drank before," she said.

"What do you mean, Hermione," said the chubby wizard, "pumpkin juice is pumpkin juice; is muggle pumpkin juice different or someth'n?"

"Um . . . Neville, normal people—I mean normal muggles—don't drink pumpkin juice," Hermione advised.

"Muggles don't drink pumpkin juice," Ron said in an almost indignant tone, "are they barmy or something; don't tell me, muggles drink orange juice or some other equally disgusting thing."

"Actually mate . . ." Harry began.

"Ahem," Professor McGonagall cleared her throat as she approached the group of first year Gryffindors, "I have your class schedules for this term."

A number of eyes looked towards her, two sets more expectant and eager than others; she began to hand out sheets of parchment, reserving Harry and Hermione's for last. She approached and leaned between them.

"Good morning, Lord Potter," she quietly said as she handed Harry his timetable.

"Good morning, Professor—thank you," he replied as he took the offered parchment before almost whispering, "please address me as a student; I don't want special or preferential treatment while at school—I don't really want it anywhere but there isn't much I can do about it."

"As you wish, Mr. Potter," she replied.

"Thank you Professor McGonagall."

"Now then, Miss Granger . . ." she began and then stopped; the older witch looked stunned as she looked at the young witch's schedule before whispering, ". . . I mean Lady Granger."

"I'm sorry, Professor—did you just call me Lady Granger, why?"

"That's what it says on your timetable, right here, milady," she politely replied and handed Hermione her sheet.

_The Lady Matriarch Hermione Jean of the Noble House Granger, year 1, term 1, House: Gryffindor, _Hermione read at the top of the page.

"I . . . I don't understand, Professor McGonagall, Harry?" She asked turning to the green-eyed boy beside her.

"Nor do I, Milady . . . Lord Potter, I feel you may have had an unknown hand in this odd development; I shall inquire of the Headmaster, perhaps he can enlighten me," the older witch said discretely.

"Professor McGonagall," Harry whispered, his voice formal and just a touch icy, "this—I hope—is the only time I shall ever have to address you so formally: I, Lord Harry James Potter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of the same name do request that this matter be spoken of to no one other than yourself, the Lady Granger or I until such time as the Lady Granger and I feel such discloser is both wise and prudent."

"Your wills be done, Milord; Milady," Professor McGonagall replied, obviously learned in courtly etiquette.

"What was all the whispering about, Hermione?" Neville asked quietly.

"Scion Longbottom, please refrain from asking difficult questions until I've had the opportunity to investigate some rather startling news," Neville recognized Harry's formal request for what it was: from one noble house to another.

"I will, Harry."

"Thank you Neville, could you please excuse Hermione and myself, we will see you in," Harry said, glancing at his timetable, "Herbology. Hermione please join me."

Harry rose from the house table, extended his hand to Hermione and aided the young witch to her feet. Politely excusing themselves to the rest of their housemates; the two Gryffindors made their way from the Great Hall as discretely as possible, their departure noted by only Professors Snape, Flitwick and McGonagall.

"Harry, what's going on?" Hermione asked, virtually in panic.

"I don't know, but this definitely is not the place to speak of such things," Harry said as calmly as possible.

—**}{—**

"Chronicler Griphook, you cannot barge in on Vaultlord Goldenfang—it is counter to all formal protocol."

"I'm sorry, Silkenrobe; protocols be damned—this cannot wait—I must see Vaultlord Goldenfang and I will see him even if I must physically move you," Griphook insisted.

"At least let me properly announce you," Vaultlord Goldenfang's assistant Silkenrobe almost plead, racing for the door before Griphook got there; she knocked.

"What is it?" Goldenfang's gruff voice answered from beyond the door.

Silkenrobe hesitantly opened the heavy door and said, "It's Griphook—he's insistent, Milord, and will not be deterred . . ."

". . . Vaultlord Goldenfang," Griphook said as he pushed past the female goblin.

Goldenfang scowled at the intruder, "Griphook, this had best be paramount to the needs of The People and The Nation or you will be shoveled away as dragon dung!"

"My apologizes Vaultlord, it's regarding Lord Potter-Scion Black, he has done something unprecedented, something to do with the Granger witch . . ."

"Is this about granting his family's protection to that muggleborn, I don't see an issue with who our young Lord offers his protection to; so,what has unbalanced your ledgers?" Goldenfang said, barely holding his temper with the recently promoted goblin.

"He did it wrong, Vaultlord," Griphook quickly answered.

"What do you mean, wrong? The Granger witch is protected or not protected how does this affect us, explain."

"Milord, I was reviewing the Potter file this morning to see where the Granger witch will sit with respect to what amounts to her Vassalage to House Potter and as I was looking, this appeared," Griphook replied as crossed Vaultlord Goldenfang's office and handed the older goblin an ornately decorated golden cylinder.

"This is a Line Scroll—it looks brand new," Goldenfang eyed the tube in his hand with suspicion and trepidation and then he saw the name on it; to see a shocked look cross a normal goblin's face was very rare to see one on a Vaultlord was unheard of but he quickly marshaled himself and continued. "Why am I holding a Line Scroll for a family who—until yesterday evening—were only a couple of muggles with a newblooded daughter? Gringotts' hasn't made a mistake I hope."

"No Lord, please open the cylinder."

Vaultlord Goldenfang uncapped the cylinder and tipped out the contents. He placed the empty tube on his desk, unrolled the scroll and read:

**The NOBLE HOUSE of GRANGER**

_September the First, Common Era 1991_

_Providence and fealty and virtue hath combined and appointed unto the most august and venerable body of peerage, loyal to The Crown, The Family Granger's daughter Hermione Jean Granger as Matriarch to The Noble House (Matriarchal) Granger and, until such time—if ever—she or her line betray the reigning sovereign, grants unto her and her heirs the title of Lady with all duties and privileges as assigned in perpetuity and The Seat Granger within The Wizengamot: so mote it be._

_Lady Hermione Jean Granger, having secured the favor—through honorable and dignified means—of both the Noble and Most Ancient Family Black (Scion Designate) and the Noble and Most Ancient Family Potter (Lord) is sponsored, presented and ascended to her place by virtue of compact and ceded powers to the Four Families on behalf of The Crown as proscribed by The Statute of Secrecy, Common Era 1226._

The Matriarchal Proxy and Lady Regent Emma Joan Granger (1991-1996)

Lord Regent, Emeritus, Daniel Richard Granger

THE LADY MATRIARCH, HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER (1991, 1996-xxxx)

Vaultlord Goldenfang rerolled the scroll and returned it to the Granger Cylinder and looked at Griphook and asked, "How did this happen?"

"I believe, Vaultlord, that young Lord Harry mistakenly incanted the Rite of Petition instead of the Rite of Protection and as Lord of his most ancient and noble house, Magic accepted it as a valid supplication for the election of a new noble family," Griphook answered. "With Lord Harry also being the Scion Designate to House Black—also a noble and most ancient house—and, with the Black Family head currently residing in Azkaban; it makes Lord Harry the de facto Lord Black and, as such, he unintentionally seconds the nomination for the Lady Granger in the Potter Motion of Petition. Since both are Noble and Most Ancient families, it only takes the two of them to agree and to elect a new seat to the Wizengamot, so—voila—Hermione Granger is accepted as properly elected and thus appointed by Magic."

"Will it stand, Griphook?"

"Since it was accepted by Magic it can only be revoked if Lady Granger betrays Her Majesty and The Crown," Griphook replied. "As a muggle born, I think this is highly unlikely; I suspect her loyalty to The Crown supersedes her loyalty to the Wizengamot or any of its many factions."

With Griphook's well-reasoned argument resisting Vaultlord Goldenfang's attempts to poke holes in it, the elder goblin conceded to his young protégé and began to laugh.

"Silkenrobe, please ask Vaultlord Diamondwill to come to my chambers," Goldenfang at last managed to ask with a smidgen of his previous lack of composer still in his voice.

"As you will, Vaultlord," Silkenrobe replied and turned from Goldenfang's office.

"I think, Chronicler Griphook, we have a new family to court," the Vaultlord posed. "Let us hope they are receptive to The Nation's overtures; oh, how I'd love to be the beetle on the wall when Lady Granger and Family are presented to the current sitting body of the Wizengamot when she takes her seat; by the way, what family was last elected to a seat?"

"The Malfoy family, Milord," Griphook answered; his answer was greeted by another fusillade of chortles from the usually staid Vaultlord.

"Please dispatch our congratulations and welcome to the new Noble House of Granger—priority eagle of course. Griphook, we will keep this between you, me, Silkenrobe and Vaultlord Diamondwill so please contact Lady Ganger care of Lord Potter at Hogwarts and ask her how her Ladyship wishes to proceed—oh, please advise Overlord Ragnok for me as well."

"As you wish Vaultlord."

—**}{—**

Once again, Harry found it easier to follow Hermione than trust himself to find the Gryffindor dorm but at least he was beginning to recognize some landmarks en route, he noted. A large number of paces and numerous stairs later, the two young magicals reached the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Caput Draconis," Hermione and Harry intoned unintentionally in unison; a quick glance to the other, followed by little smiles, preceded the portrait swinging open for them.

"After you, Lady Granger," Harry said as he formally bowed her in.

"This isn't funny and I'm scared; I don't understand any of this mas . . . Harry," the young witch paled; thankful, at least she had caught herself before blurting out what had been on her tongue. _What am I going to do; what am I going to do, _her thoughts roiled in turmoil; _too much is happening, my hormones are racing—I think I understand mom better—and now this whole title business: what does it all mean? I only wanted a quiet school year, good grades and a chance to make a friend or two but instead I get precocious urges and 'the Lady' added to my name._

"Hermione . . . Hermione," Harry said, trying to gain her attention before almost shouting, "Mione!"

Drawn from her thoughts, the young witch replied, "Har . . . Harry what do you want me to do?"

"The first thing you will do is go inside," Harry said with a smile; an odd tingle coursed through his body as he realized his tone was more command than request and that his pretty witch didn't seem to mind.

"Yes m'Lord," said Hermione, intending it as jest towards the morning's strange events; it sounded far more demure than she had purported but it brought her a sense of welcome calm to embrace. A subdued witchling stepped over the threshold; followed by a confused wizardling, wondering why he liked it—a lot—that his friend had called him her Lord, instead of 'just' Harry.

The portrait swung closed, Harry and Hermione padded across the Common Room; taking her friend's offered hand, the witch and wizard ascended the stairs.

"Um, Hermione," Harry began; stopping on the landing, "can you even come to my dorm; it's for boys after all."

"Of course I can—you told me you'd read 'Hogwarts: A History'," she replied, sounding surprised that he might've forgotten. "Don't you remember where it was written that: 'for the purpose of protecting the virtue of geong witches, Hogwarts dorm rooms are separated and access to the witch's chambers are warded to thwart illicit venery twixt a geong witch and geong wizard' an odd mixture of modern and archaic English I remember thinking after reading the passage. It then mentions that Hogwarts must cover either the Bride Price or Dowry—depending on the families involved and their societal position—of compromised and/or devalued witches: that part made me quite angry. I mean—honestly Harry—it basically equated a woman to a common commodity and is beyond chauvinistic; it's downright debasing and I found this in the most recent edition too!"

Harry found Hermione's fire; over what she saw as a slight, kindling a different sort of warmth a few inches below his belly. It was so distracting that he barely noticed her brief pause to breath and his chance to speak, he said, "Hermione, I take it that all that means you can enter the boy's dormitory and, yes, I forgot; I read 'Hogwarts: A History' way back at the beginning of August."

"C'mon Harry, that's only a month ago, not way back," she implored.

"Not for you, maybe," he murmured to himself.

"Did you say something?" Hermione asked.

"Just muttering—it's noth'n really—but I just realized that racing back here was pointless," replied Harry, "Neville said he put it in his trunk for safe keeping; I'm not about to rummage through his things without permission: I guess we wait. Let's have a seat in the Common Room, Hermione; I'd rather not plant the seeds of rumor, who knows what might sprout in the fertile minds of our dorm-mates if they found us us alone in what amounts to my bedroom."

Hermione considered his words and then said, "I think you're right, Harry—we've already become the topic of speculation and talk; in the first year girl's dorm at least."

"Gossip already, I should've shown greater wisdom but making a friend—finally—sorta clouded my judgment," Harry said, sounding apologetic. "I was—well not fully, really—prepared for the microscope that I and my actions would likely entail but I've gone and put you under the same scrutiny and likely messed up your chance to be just a student; for that I'm extremely sorry Hermione."

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione soothed, "there's noth'n we can do now but live with it and hope our classmates soon find a new source of gossip and rumor; leaving us alone in the process."

"We can hope," he replied and found his eyes locked to hers.

"Um . . . excuse me you two."

With a start, Hermione and Harry turned to the owner of the voice; Neville Longbottom was standing just inside the dormitory.

"When I saw you and Hermione leave the table so suddenly and quickly, I figured it had something to do with Professor McGonagall and the very quiet conversation you had with her," Neville said and sounded uncomfortable.

Hermione noticed the lad's discomposure and asked, "It's okay Neville, I won't bite so you don't need to be so nervous."

The chubby wizard glanced around the common room—they were alone as far as he could tell—and then said very reticently, "It was not my intent to eavesdrop on your conversation with Professor McGonagall but I overheard some of it all the same."

"What did you overhear, Scion Longbottom?" Harry challenged, his eyes narrowed their focus to just the young wizard; beside him Hermione fidgeted nervously, although her gaze on Neville was nearly a glare.

"Please, I meant no offense Lord Potter; Lady Granger . . ."

"Is that what you overheard 'Lady Granger' I'm telling you right now that if this a joke it's in the worst possible taste and if it's a mistake, I shall immediately see to its resolution," Hermione said very firmly and was taken aback when a bright green glow surrounded her, "what was that?"

"You made a vow your Ladyship," Neville answered, "the green glow signified that it was the truth and proves beyond a shadow of doubt that you are truly a Lady of a noble house because that glow will only accompany a Noble's declaration—magic will not ere in these matters, it can't, your Ladyship."

Hermione mulled through the young man's words before saying, "Correct me if I'm wrong but didn't I hear that you were the son of a noble house?"

"Yes, I am," he answered then continued, "I am Scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, Milady."

"It sounds like you should outrank me, according to my timetable I'm a lady of just a noble house not a noble and most ancient house like you and—sorry about this, Harry—Lord Potter," Hermione said, trying to distance and dissociate herself from title.

"I'm sorry, Milady, I'm just a scion and can only ascend to the rank of Lord through my emancipation, on or after my seventeenth birthday, providing I'm elected by a majority votes in the Wizengamot or other certain conditions are met," Neville replied and then continued. "Since I'm only a scion and you must be at least partially emancipated—hence the heraldic antecedent of Lady—you and Lord Potter outrank me for the time being, Lady Granger."

"MY NAME IS HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, MY PARENTS ARE DOCTOR DANIEL RICHARD GRANGER AND DOCTOR EMMA JOAN GRANGER—THEY ARE NOT NOBLE NOR ARE THEY PEERAGE, THEY ARE DENTISTS!"


End file.
